Lux Aeterna :: Book One :: The Meager
by Steven Mayo
Summary: A very extensive novelization of FFI....kind of...read Author's notes at beginning of Chapter ONe for better idea.;
1. The Miscreant Pt 1

Author's Notes

            _Lux Aeterna_ is a game novelization of sorts; a Final Fantasy One novelization.  Book One (this one) will take the story through the building of the bridge, which if memory serves me right is about twenty minutes of gameplay.  Not a lot of story, I know, but consider that I don't even have Light Warriors until after page twenty and you'll understand.  I also intend two additional books (I had trilogy fever when I came up with the idea) but I start to play with the story a lot more then, so we'll just stick to Book One for now.      

Of all types of fanfic my favorite is the game novelization: just taking a game (or a small part of it) and giving it long form, exercising imagination to expand these characters and plots.  Final Fantasy One is especially well suited to this form because there are so few givens, which can be stifling.  The author is free to produce his/her own characters and plot twists while still maintaining the vain of the game.  You'll find that I've taken many liberties, but the story is basically intact.

I'll just put out the warning now and make sure you understand that when I say novelization, I mean it.  This is a novel.  It will probably be over 160 "word" pages by the time I'm done (and that's like 340 Harry Potter pages).  Obviously I screw around a lot with the story to keep things interesting, but in a way I don't think this is any more or less than what the creators could have wanted.  This game, made for the NES, only had so much space for story; I'm just filling in a lot of underwhelming holes.  I hope you agree.

This will be rated PG-13 for violence, intense/possibly frightening situations, ridiculously emotional situations, and very, _very_ sparse adult language.  

And finally, please don't write me with the sole purpose of pointing out anachronisms to me.  First of all, I assure you they are all intentional, second of all, this is fantasy, anachronisms are technically impossible.  Now, if you want to discuss their use and stylistic application, by all means write me.  I just don't need them pointed out.  It's not like I don't know they're there.  

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 1 ~ The Miscreant Pt. 1

            "So, Seville, are you looking forward to the big centennial tonight?" asked the patron, sitting half-on and half-off the pitiful stool struggling under the man's incredible weight.  Seville, short but beautifully handsome, made a careless flick of his dark hair and set his drink glass down behind his plate of food.

            "I've asked ya before, Parsons, could ya please stop calling it that?" responded Seville slightly emphatically, a hint of playful annoyance under his breath.  He took a healthy bite out of his hamburger.

            "Boy-o, I was certainly drunk at the time, so perhaps you could…"

            "Because it's not really a centennial!  The castle and township were built over a thousand years ago and we've just been doing the centennial celebration for three hundred years now.  It's stupid!"  Seville said, truly emphatic this time.  He was too young to be in the tavern really, but the proprietor, another hefty man, named Dunnings, had special arrangements.  

            "By god would you listen to this one right here," said another patron sitting next to Parsons.

            "The whole deal behind this celebration goes back to Queen Tchai.  Three hundred years ago Corneria was at war with the elves and losing bad; reason we've got the stupid trade levies even today.  Despite having the stronger shipping industry here in Corneria, the elves have always had better technology.  Remember, this was the war when cannons were first introduced…by them!"  Seville was surprised to find that the two men were actually listening intently; it was too early for them to be drunk.  "Anyways, so to gather morale, the Queen talked the King into holding this big celebration commemorating the many great years of the Cornerian Empire, all to shadow our lands' going down the crapper.  When the King asked what they would call it, the Queen, being smarter than him of course, said 'Centennial'.  People, including the King, are too stupid to do the math."

            The two patrons, Parsons and the other, sat with a distant confusion in their eyes for the moment.  Seville could even feel the other patrons, earlier talking and discussing their own blasphemies, settle into a quiet, murmur.  But that could just be coincidence.

            "So…you're saying…" Parsons said meekly.

            "I'm saying it's a sham, Parsons!" exasperated Seville, again flipping his hair, which floated down in mushy locks, dramatically back.  "It's like Mother's Day!  It's not a bad thing, it's just not factually grounded, and people learning these kinds of things is the first step to bettering our global impression.  Might even get us some respect; improve diplomatic ties with the elves even."  

            Seville allowed a smile to creep on his thin, bright face.  He was winning!  Suddenly even his hamburger tasted like victory.  However, the patron sitting next to Parsons then spoke up with an old-timer's zeal.

            "This is because of that new Political Science class at the quad isn't it?  What's that professor's name?  Sylum?"

            "Dr. Sylum is the only intellectual blood we've got pumping in this berg."  

            "Yeah, well this Mr. Sylum…"

            "_Doctor_ Sylum!" Seville had flown onto the defensive.

            "Hmmm…This _Doctor_ Sylum should maybe worry about putting ideas into the young people's heads.  Queen Tchai's not around anymore, and King Eliv runs a tight ship.  If you're really so concerned about the state of the nation then you won't go 'round promoting disunion and neither will this _Doctor_ of yours," said the man setting next to Parsons eloquently, without a single fumble of voice.  

Seville suddenly disliked him very much.  His fries tasted bitter and cold.  Of course, Seville was not so vain as to disregard that this man at least thirty years on him, Seville being just nineteen, and that perhaps the man did know a side of politics that only comes with age's wisdom.  But he would not hear the talk against professor Sylum, his personal hero, as he himself was of above average intelligence.  And then an idea came to his head, but that intelligence could not make him let it go.  The brash kid in him took over.  He said,

            "If King Eliv runs such a tight ship then how did his daughter get kidnapped?"

            A man along the far wall of the tavern hacked an esophageal choke and then spit his bourbon out all over the man across from him.  As he let out another two mighty coughs to clear his throat the tavern suddenly swelled with laughter, some of the men literally barreling over onto their tables, punching their palms into the wooden surfaces.  

The man next to Parsons flushed red with anger and embarrassment, and he found himself at a loss for words.  That bright smile returned to Seville's narrow face and he took a grand swig of his milkshake.  It tasted delicious, like _certain_ victory!  He now beamed through the comfortable blanket of laughs that rang for him, or at least for the man who got bourbon spit on him, and that was partially Seville's fault.  Seville even stood and repeated the line a couple more times, each time garnering another wave of laughter from the potential drunks.  He reveled in it until:

"Seville!  Please!" asserted the bartender Dunnings in a stern but fatherly voice.  "Quiet it down, now!"  

Seville flashed Dunnings a warm grin and then nodded his head obediently and sat down in his chair, admiring what was left of his food, which wasn't much.  The man next to Parsons had turned back to the bar where he sat and clearly established that he would take no part in talking to this ingrate of a teenager.  Parsons himself, still chuckling, his bulgy fat slopping up and down in waves, continued to peer at Seville.

Seville was thin throughout, but did a have a good bit of muscle for his size.  He was a star track runner for the athletics club, his favorite events were sprinting and hurtling.  The dark clumps of hair hung down to just above his shoulders and, when not attended to, framed in around his face and sometimes covered his eyes.  He dressed simply in a black t-shirt and equally dark slacks.  Although young, and having the vigorous voice of one his age, his face did not suggest such an age.  He looked at least twenty-three and could get a heavy dose of alcohol from any bartender but Dunnings, who knew better.  Seville didn't really care much for spiritual beverages anyways, but he enjoyed the fact that he could get them if he wanted.  In fact, Seville found that his true talent in life was getting away with things.  As you might have already noticed, he had quite the mouth on him, but he knew how to use it properly, a rare gift among men in this town.  Although not really desiring a questionable reputation (and perhaps Parsons' friend had hit too close with _disunion_), these qualities of his had put him in trouble's way.  Though he had usually evaded it either with speed of foot or tongue.  Seville knew he was too intelligent to stoop to crime, but he also new that crime was a vocation much in need of intelligent professionals.  Only Dunnings and a few others knew of his extracurricular activities, and hopefully it would stay that way.  _Hopefully_ he would be out of that kind of thing as soon as possible.  If Corneria weren't so dependant on traditions his intelligence would have got him somewhere much earlier.

Parsons then spoke, breaking for the others that brief moment of rest, that giddy downtime where your saying anything would just start it up again.  

"So, wait a minute, Seville." Parsons voice was edge-line confusion, "What's gonna happen at the centennial?"

Seville stared blankly for a beat and then responded along with a slow, sarcastic shake of his head, "You just weren't listening to any of it, were you?"

"Well, I listened to Jackie over there spit bourbon all over Simms." He said energetically but lowly.  Still, an infectious giggle came from the men who had not gone back to their own conversations.

"Just don't call it a centennial, alright?  I'm begging you!"  Seville thought he saw Parson's friend, the defeated, mouthing something to himself but decided to let it pass, for Dunnings's sake.

"Alright, alright, young one.  Now then, ya got any plans for the…ahem…_shin-dig_?"  Seville couldn't argue with that word choice, a grin came to his face.

"I might have a couple things up my sleeves, yeah." Seville said suggestively, suddenly realizing how quickly he brightened at the prospect of attention.

"Ooooo, what'cha gonna do?" asked Parsons eagerly.  Parsons also was about thirty years older than Seville, which made the direction of the interest in this conversation seem backwards from afar.

"Now, now, it wouldn't be right to tell.  That might ruin the surprise, and…"

"Seville?" Dunnings broke in firmly; again with a disciplinary look upon his face, "I certainly hope you're not planning anything that might get one into trouble.  The last thing I need is the only mind worth a nickel in my bar spending time in the dungeons."

"Of course not!" said Seville, trying his best to sound serious as a thanks for the compliment.  Praise from Dunnings always came at those angles.

"Well, I can't wait for it, boy-o" said Parsons just before he took a large drink.  It was late afternoon; about the time the men usually started drinking real drinks.  Since the collapse of the farming trade and the drying up of two strong gold veins, a lot of the men killed the time in Dunnings's tavern, which was called _Lux Aeterna_ after an old legend.  Something about warriors and orbs and destiny.  Who cared, really?  Seville could always ask Dr. Sylum if he really needed to know.

There was suddenly a loud snap and the cross bar along the tavern door flew out and skimmed by a patron's head.  The wooden flat spun around quickly on its hinges and collided into the wall and then bounced back shakily, a dull sprung sounding.  The patrons turned their heads with a jerk and regarded the great presence that was silhouetted by the entering sun.  His steps were heavy and deliberate as he walked in, each beat on the ground low and metallic.  

It was a guard captain, distinguished by the brazen coating rubbed into the grand armor.  He was gigantic as men went around those parts, at least six and a half feet tall, possibly more.  His chest ran so wide and his shoulders so thick and high that it was a wonder the man could fit into the standard issue armor.  His muscles pressed tightly against the plating.  His face was hidden behind a beautiful spiked helmet.  

Soon after he entered follow three additional soldiers, these just base ranking guards, as distinguished by the original silver tint of their armor, which was also less impressive as a good deal of the joints were left unadorned where the head guard had chain mail.  They fanned out broadly, covering as much of the tavern floor, which was large as it was the only one in town, as possible.  Although saying nothing right off, their thick helmets gave them the eternal impression of growling.  Scare tactics, thought Seville, suddenly nervous and trying not to flush.

The other patrons sat still in their chairs, most of them putting their eyes downcast, as if shamed.  A few of the braver did look the soldiers in the eyes as best they could through the thin helmet visors, but still said nothing and made no reproach.  Dunnings, not only stern with Seville, threw his rag down on the bar and centered himself behind it quickly, saying, "Just what's going…"

"Silence!" yelled out the guard captain, his voice was like an ogre's.  "Yesterday there was a break-in at the manor-house, the lord says a good amount of his materials have been taken, including books and alchemical paraphernalia."

The room was filled with a deathly stillness broken only by the implied vibrations of the captain's booming voice.  Behind his bronze visor he viewed the nervous patrons, all of them now assuming a downcast glance, including the fat bartender who he had swiftly humbled.  He allowed himself a cheerful grin that was just as abruptly suppressed so he could remove his helmet.  His face was so firm and flat that you'd wonder whether the helmet was gone.  His chin was the size of an orange almost.

"We're operating on reliable word that the miscreant frequents this very tavern, and nobody is going anywhere until each of you is questioned thoroughly.  You might want to manage another round of drinks for everyone, barkeep."

"Now, you wait just a minute here," called Dunnings frantically.  Within him seemed to burn with a very real concern, like a parent defending a child.  "You can't just walk into my bar and start throwing around orders!  It's not decent, you know!"

"No, Mr. Dunnings, it's not decent but it is the will of the King which I must see through."  Dunnings felt his heart jump when he heard his own name mentioned.  How would this guard captain know that?  Dunnings had never seen this giant before.

Seville however was thinking about how weakly the guard captain had lied.  Truly it must be the will of the King, but this man had no concern about the King's will.  He would enjoy every moment of this.  The captain continued:

"So, nobody is leaving until we have completed the interrogation, is that understood?" 

"And if we refuse?" The sudden shout came from the man named Jackie, who was in the back corner across from the bar.  He had stood very quickly and called forth his defiance with vehement strength.  The guards, at first startled, ran over to him with militant zeal and pried down on him.  The captain, looking almost gleeful at the willing resistance followed shortly.

"Well then it's to the dungeons!  We'll start with you!"

Jackie made a few more defiant comments, creating the true spectacle of himself.  The guard captain and his men seemed to find the action so intriguing that their minds wandered from the others in the bar, which was almost not a problem, as the good deal of them were near petrified.  But Seville had stood with a graceful silence and proceeded towards the bar as quickly as possible.  Dunnings, also ignoring Jackie and proceeding to his own business, hunched over his wide belly and lifted up a door from the floor behind the bar.  The hinges were well greased and it was noiseless.  Still moving lightly on his feet, Seville made a quick glance to see that the soldiers were still centered on Jackie, and then he descended below the bar, followed by Dunnings.  

Below was the living quarters, small and sparsely furnished with only a bed, table and chair, and hardly stocked bookshelf.  The two men remained silent until they had moved fully into the room, and then still whispered, though emphatically.  

"Listen here, Seville.  I don't know what part you played but I know you had something to do with this.  If Jackie hadn't done what he did!"

"Mr. Dunnings, I…"

"No excuses!  Not anymore!  How could you get back into this so soon?  It was that professor wasn't it?" Dunnings shook with a controlled fury, looking almost that he might strike.

"Please, just leave him out of…"  
"No excuses, Seville!  I've had enough of this kind of thing!" Dunnings stood

quietly for the moment as if at a loss for words.  The air around them was thick with sweat, the aggression between them, and the menacing weight of the silence from above.  Eventually Dunnings's face slacked into a distant form of sorrow, but it could not equal the look of Seville's face, broken and shamed.

            "Look, Mr. Dunnings, I should…"

            "You know the drill," Dunnings interrupted, and then he moved over to the bookcase and grabbed one of the shabbier looking volumes, pulling it towards him from the top of the spine.  After setting the book back into its slot the entire case slid sideways, eerily quiet, until all that remained before them was a fashioned door, wooden and ornate.  

            Before Seville could move into the doorway, Dunnings pulled another book off the case, this time surprising Seville, and within its pages, which were actually fake, lay a small brass key, heavy for its size.  Dunnings, now shaking as if frightened, handed it briskly to Seville and then returned the book.  

            "Take it and use it.  Now go!" he said firmly, trying to quell the tremble in his voice.  

            Seville, now looking more childish, at least more his age, moved slowly into the doorway but turned around.  He could not stop the tremble in his voice.

            "Mr. Dunnings, I…" but he could not finish.  He meekly glanced up and down Dunnings's large figure, as if trying to get a measure of the situation.  Inside he writhed with a hot emotional pain.  But Dunnings shed another layer of anger for a layer of sadness, and the folds along his face scrunched heavily as he spoke once more.

            "I'm disappointed in you, Seville.  You know it didn't have to be this way.  Now go!"

            Taking the cue, though pulsing sickly all over, Seville nodded pathetically and then turned and walked through the doorway, closing the door softly behind him.   


	2. The Miscreant Pt 2

Author's Notes

            I've change Princess Sara's name to Moira for aesthetic reasons, that's all.

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 2 ~ The Miscreant Pt. 2

            The catacombs were almost as old as Corneria itself, finished over many times by many people.  Supposedly built by the very first proprietor of the tavern, _Lux Aeterna_, they then, and this is all lore these days, were used as a storage place for alcohol.  Indeed, in the first years of the tavern, Corneria had been under strict prohibition legislation, and so the tavern was more a speakeasy.  The proprietor, conveniently named Lux, which proved a bit of his haughtiness in choosing such a name for the tavern, was a famously odd man at the time.  Besides taking the incredible risk of running the establishment, he dabbled in several powerful magical arts, was an arcane treasure hunter before settling down, and suffered from random swells of dementia, which at the time before modern medicine was blamed on dark spirits.  Then again, everything was blamed on dark spirits at one time or another.

            Dunnings, who along with Seville was the only man who knew of the catacombs these days, used it for moderate storage but with so little to hide it had most often served as an escape route for Seville.  

            Given their diminished uses, the catacombs were impressively vast, expanding almost the dimensions of the whole township.  The hallways were especially dense under the market place and temple, though not a one above knew of them.  The walls were well kept as Dunnings often took free time to polish them, in pieces of course, and Seville had traversed their passages many times.  There existed only one other entrance, or exit in this case, and it was a goodly walk to it.  The air was dank and still like within a coffin's.

            Seville lifted a small wooden rod from out a box nailed to the wall just to his right.  It was narrow, like a wooden dowel, and the top few inches were separated by a circumscribing groove.  He made a hasty twist of this small segment and from the end of the rod suddenly shown a brilliant beam of light.  Illegal trade had brought these magnificent devices from the distant Elfhein, they called them _flashlights_.

            But this first action was simply of habit, something you had to do if you wanted to see.  Seville couldn't seem to follow it with anything.  He held the flashlight down by his thigh and flicked it blankly with his hand, his eyes studying the horizon of the yellow glow.  It was hot as usual, but the sweat dampening his brow was not from the heat.  It was everything else.  Looking towards the dark tunnel before him, the path disappearing into black, he felt weak and helpless.  He felt terrible all over.  If he didn't have the will power to fight it he might have started shaking violently, a purging of vehement guilt.  With the greatest efforts he pressed his heavy feet forward and proceeded deeper into the combs.

            It was an unusual step, the guard captain leading an interrogation in the tavern.  Seville could respect that times had been getting tougher economically in the last year, but King Eliv wasn't the kind to enact displays of martial law.  It was no doubt a bout of paranoia, which had become the King's trademark since the abduction of his daughter, the Princess Moira, three weeks back.  The news had first brought the large city to an uproar and then to a confused stupor, with countless farmers and miners feeling aimless and yet not knowing why.  In truth, the kidnapping of the Princess had had no effect on the town but to cause its leader to act rashly at times.  This time it just happened to come around to him, Seville was thinking to himself, not his fault really.  

            But this was a lie.  There was a quick burn of enhanced guilt within him and then it faded away, along with the moment, as he moved slowly through the catacombs, almost enjoying the pleasant downtime.  Under the city like this it was possible to truly relax and truly know quiet.  He had spent many hours just admiring the wonderful solitude of this place.  Even when a single hall would stretch hundreds of feet in each direction you could simply aim the flashlight upwards and exist wholly within the small room of light around you.  The immense darkness in either direction would not only appear but honestly feel that it had walled you in.  Seville loved that feeling but felt wrong in dwelling on it at this moment.  Another wave of guilt, but he suppressed it.

            Before leaving he had a few things to accomplish, the first of which was raiding the primary storage room, which wasn't really set off with a door or anything, but was wider than the tunnels and stacked with old crates, mainly containing old wine bottles, still aging to perfection.  But in the center of the room stood a tall armor stand, currently wearing a well finished leather plate and leg guards.  Seville fitted them on quickly and then moved over to a long flat case set upon one of the worn down boxes.  The case was ornate and well kept, not lined with dust like everything else.  Seville made a ceremonious stroke along the outer surface and then opened it wide, and the contents shined beautifully up at him.  They were twin daggers, diligently crafted in silver, brought all the way from the Elven lands.  With a graceful spin between his fingers he took them by the handle and sheathed them.  With a certain sentimentality, Seville had had inscribed on the two handles respectively _Lux_ and _Aeterna_.

            He was remarkably skilled with the blades, as with his tongue.  Since his fifteenth birthday, when Dunnings had gifted him the daggers, he had trained diligently and found mastery in them.  They were manageable and swift, just the two qualities one of his talents held in highest regard.  Sometimes he was chilled with his own confidence that he could kill any of the elite guards within seconds.  He'd never used them except in self-defense however and did not intend other uses.    And so his training was more a tool of appeasement.  Seville greatly admired the quality of being skilled.

            Again taking the flashlight in hand Seville reentered the long paths of the catacombs, feeling more confident now that he was armed and armored, also because the raging guilt had subsided and he felt more himself.  Seville did not care for heightening emotions, as it made it more difficult to act with a cool head.  Remembering the brass key in his pocket, Seville gulped, streamlining the wall cracks as he passed in silence.  

            At his deliberate pace it was a full fifteen minutes, each minute passing as dully as the one before it, to the other exit, which had brought him a good distance across the town.  Before him stood a narrow wooden staircase leading up to a hatch doorway.  But he could not go yet.  He could almost feel that heavy brass key pulse, as if it called to him.  Seville knew what must be done with it and shuddered within at the thought.  Turning to his left revealed a dark path, grown over impossibly with tendril-like vegetation from the ceiling.  Standing solace at the tunnel entrance, one to each side, were fantastic statues fashioned into mighty dragons, their muzzles stretched wide to let forth a fiery breath.  They ran almost to the ceiling, about eight feet high, and their thick tails hugged the walls along the path for all of five feet.  The statues were solid but for their eyes, where in place were fitted brilliant rubies, the size of clenched fists.  The flashlight's beam did not extend far enough, as if it were stifled by the hanging vines, and the tunnel's end, if it ended at all, could not be discerned.  Countless times Seville had passed this junction on way up the stairs, each time with a pitiful shudder.  Never had he passed by the two dragon gods, learned what lay beyond their gate.  It was unthinkable at every moment before this one; to look upon them was to know fear.  But Seville suddenly knew he had to pass them and brave whatever ever terror existed beyond.  As he passed, the gleam in the dragons' ruby eyes seemed to shift as if following him, but Seville did his best to blame this on the light's reflection.

            The first steps were the most difficult, moving cautiously as if his heart might explode from the terrible beating.  Just as he had moved deep enough into the passageway that the tendrils from above could scratch against his head, a shocking sense of cold came over him.  Before him his breath shown in wavering jets from his mouth, and the sweat upon his skin chilled over, sending shivers down his whole body.  The thickness of the dark almost completely choked away the beam of the wooden dowel, and Seville began to squint, still trying to confidently push one leg before the other.  

            The path must have gone on forever; it felt like hours were gushing by when only minutes had passed.  But the scenery did not change or become any the more daunting.  Seville adapted to the cold and felt surer of himself with every step.  Dunnings had told him at a young age, not long after the death of his parents in fact, to never enter this place, but he would not give a reason to the rule and did not need to.  Just looking upon those dragon guardians, it struck against one's very soul to enter such a place.  It stunk of desecration.  But now was the time.  Something in his godfather's frantic voice not even an hour ago told him that the time had come to face the guardians' keep.  Whatever the risk.  Then, just feet before him it seemed, a small sliver of light flashed back at him.

            Now filled with mounting excitement, he quickened to a brisk pace, almost a jog.  Much to his surprised, the reflective surface was more than a minute's jog away and he was overcome with frantic fascination as he beheld the magnificent sight before him.  A broad chest, of the largest build he had ever seen, lined with gold and silver plates etched with dragon friezes, centering around an incredible metal lock, thickest he'd known, and it glowed with wavy haze.  The lock was not quite silver, but not iron or bronze.  Could it be steel or even Elven mythril?

            He ducked down and aimed the flashlight into the keyhole, and again his eyes widened at a revelation.  The inner-workings were vast, an incredible configuration of gears and levers, connected with wires.  

            "Not with an entire day's work and the best tools could I undo this lock!" said Seville, much impressed.  He was mesmerized by the swirling aura of white, but knew not what it meant.  Magic, of course, but should it function as a warning or a blessing?  The key in his pocket felt its heaviest as he lifted it out and aimed it at the keyhole.  He felt a sudden need to check over his shoulder and he did so, somehow not pleased when he found that nothing was stalking him.  

            An odd thought came to him then, so brilliantly that it seemed out of one of the great poems: _I can never go back…_

            Then with an eagerness even the resistance of his heart could not quell he thrust the key into the lock and twisted harshly, thereafter it snapped open and swayed sideways, falling to the floor.  Breathing harder than if he had sprinted for miles, he swung wide the massive lid and peered within, fully ready to die for his knowledge, but at first he saw nothing there.  Was it empty?

            He shifted the flashlight in his grasp, annoyance overshadowing his fascination.   This could not all be for nothing, he thought angrily.  But then he saw, small and meager in the further corner of the chest, a spherical object no bigger than a child's palm.  It lay covered with a thick dust coating, almost invisible but for the impression it makes upon the particle blanket.  Despite an intuitive gesture from his brain to just stand and start running that very instant, Seville took the sphere between his trembling fingers and raised it to the light.

            How simple an object it was!  It felt made of glass, and in wiping off the dust, had no marks but a single molded diagram, a jagged line.  Beyond that it was perfectly shaped and surfaced, the interior taking on a dark hue, though it could have just been the murky atmosphere.  It has not particularly heavy for its size but just right.  It was for lack of a better description a crystal ball, not the first that Seville had ever seen, either.  Seville exercised great strain to discern what it meant, hunched right there next to the treasure chest, but did not have but a moment to do so.

            Behind him he began to hear a faint, high-pitched gush of air, like a cat sustaining its hiss.  The sound had grown considerably before he truly noticed it over the beats from his chest.  Taking a moment to fully _hear_ it, he suddenly felt cold all over once more, and he turned with an abrupt spin, finding himself facing a monstrous visage.  

            Seville recoiled back and fell over the chest, landing bottom first into its wide cavity.  He struggled a few vain moments but could not press himself upwards.  Floating before him, airy cloak wisping to and fro on nothingness, was a hideous creature, with a human face long and distorted, stuck in the final gaze of delightful terror, eyes startlingly red.  From its incorporeal maw it bellowed a piercing screech, like a banshee's, and flew into Seville, passing right through and leaving all of Seville's body frozen.  Struggling once more, only harder, Seville managed to push himself up, and made to run before something struck his mind harshly and he turned around.  A frantic glance all around and then he spied the orb, clawed it from the dust with a single swish of his arm, and then ran down the dark hallway, the beam of his flashlight bouncing from ceiling to floor in wavy repetitions.

            His vision was a confusing mesh of vines slapping against his face.  He attempted to duck, but found them down there as well, as if they had grown in the last moments and would imprison him with the demon.  Indeed, as the vines caught on the folds and snaps of his clothing, it felt as if they were grabbing at him with small, vegetative hands made to subdue.  Beating desperately against their thickness he lost his balance and flew hard to the floor, knocking the wind of out his lungs.  As he hacked violently another cold chill set over him, the demon was rising from behind.

            Seville jumped to his feet and with assured calculation unsheathed a dagger and made a long diagonal thrust across the creature.  The strike would have killed man where he stood.  But here it served only to jettison black ribbons of nothing, leaving a transparent slash across the monster that quickly filled in.  Seville, now shaken with fear, could only manage weak steps backwards.  The creature then seemed to reach into itself with its long fingers, grasping at where its heart might be.  Seville found the strength to turn and run once more as the demon pulled forth a long, flowing scythe.  

            Perhaps because it chose to, the creature created loud currents of wind as it rushed after Seville.  He could hear the flapping drapes of its intangible cloak beat against themselves in vibrant thuds.  They got louder and Seville knew the creature was upon him again.  Instinctively he ducked his head low and felt the breeze of the murderous scythe as it slashed above him in a long swoop.  He pushed as hard as his legs would allow, and then even more, but the monster could not be outdone.  Blood thumping hotly in his temples, he strafed from side to side, trying his best to avoid the airy blade.  

            And then he saw a dim glow of red off in the distance, sparkling like the ruby eyes of the dragons.  As he neared their cross he squinted hard at the coming of another horrible screech from the banshee, so loud his eyes rattled.  But his legs were growing stronger, he was in sight of the crossing, and he would make it; he would escape this demon forever if he could only…

            Seville let out a bitter yelp of pain as the cold scythe thrust through his right arm, just through without a single surface abrasion.  And yet pain suddenly coursed throughout his body, running along his veins and arteries like blood.  With his left arm he attempted to strangle the life out of his right, as if he would block a poison from reaching his heart, all the while running forward to the dragon gods.  His pitiful dash became staggered and weak, each step more like a heavy stomp before the next.  The banshee screamed again and moved in for another strike.

            But then Seville crossed by the dragon statues with a final jolt of adrenaline and hurtled up the stairway, grasping his throbbing arm as he went out into the daylight.  As the demon collided with the gaze of the dragons it instantly dissipated into a jumble of cries and smoke; and then nothingness.  Seville, however, did not see this.

********************

            "Open! Open!" a terrified Seville called, pounding his good arm flat against the wide door while his other arm cringed up next to his body, jagged and hurt.  "Open, I say!  Eddie, please, open!"

            Seville pounded a moment more but could not continue.  The incredible pain in his arm had almost brought him to tears, and coupled with the chase down in the catacombs, his wholeness was flushed with disorientation.  Head bobbing to pitiful sobs he collapsed to the ground, sitting and holding his injured limb in close.  Looking upon his arm, which seemed small the way it was clenched tight, Seville wept.  The scythe scar was internal, from elbow joint to palm the underside of his right arm was bruised deep blacks and purples, and his fingers were scrunched inwards like an eagle's claws, petrified.  Any attempt to move them hurt terribly.  It throbbed so strongly that it should have vibrated like a spider's egg sac, each pulse a crippling blow to his constitution, occurring at the intervals of his heart beat.  He wanted to die and felt sure that he would very soon.  It hurt _so_ much!

            Tears rolling down his sweat laden face, he gathered the strength to strike at the wooden door a few more times, though weakly in comparison.  He had found his way to the back of the temple, the clergy entrance, and thanked heavens at that moment that no one was around at the time.  But he had not come to pray.

            "Eddie, open up," he said under his voice, a meager attempt, but just then, the door did open, and a bright but concerned face peered through the opening.

            "What in the…Seville, what do you think you're doing?!" said the man, clearly agitated.  But his voice and demeanor shifted quickly as he saw on the footstep of his cathedral entrance a broken man, a teenager at that.  But he could not see what was wrong, as Seville was still caressing his arm tightly, but simply being near the man gave off an aura of sickness.  There was something _terrible_ here.

            "Eddie," said Seville, with tired, dry gasps, "you gotta help me."

            And here Seville held out his arm, his gaze a helpless mire of desperation.  It even hurt to hold it up.

            "Praise be!" said the man, and his eyes widened in fear.  "You must come in, now!"  

            The man opened the door and grabbed Seville by his good shoulder, lifting him gently.  Seville showed a grimace of swelling pain as he lifted and the two entered the backrooms of the temple.

            Edrick Valance was an apprentice clergyman.  He dressed in white robes ornamented only with a few burgundy threads along the cuffs of the sleeves and leggings.  Apprentices always kept their hoods down, so his silky blonde hair, hanging short and down to each side like a bowl, shown brightly in the light from the sunroof.  Only a few years older than Seville, he still had boyish freckles across his nose and cheeks and had beautiful blue eyes.  He was called Edrick by everyone but Seville; Seville _insisted_ on calling him Eddie.  He was a classically nervous fellow, afraid to make mistakes in the face of the harsh church law.

            They found a table, and Seville lay with his back upon it, looking up to Edrick with a distorted countenance of pain.  His thick hair had wrapped into rakish clumps along his forehead, sticking down over his eyes.

            "Can you move it?" asked Edrick, examining the arm with a doctoral curiosity but wary to touch it.

            "No," said Seville, "Hurts … too much."

            "What happened here?"

            "Man, Eddie…" said the injured man with a cough, "Just … can you heal it?"

            Edrick quickly suppressed his offended look and knelt in closer to the arm.  Seville's veins seemed to glow against the skin now, but very lightly, so that you had to look to see.  Even since he had entered the temple the injury had darkened, no longer bruise black, but true black.  The pressure was building in Edrick's temples; this was out of his league.  

            "I…" he stuttered, "I can't heal this wound, Seville.  I don't even know what it is?"

            "_Eddie!" _shouted Seville angrily, but also with a tone of hope.  

            "Alright, alright!" responded Edrick with a jump, and he ran his fingers up through his fine hair.  "Just, uh, you're gonna have to lie it flat!"

            Edrick felt like he was sinking into darkness.  Never confident with his magic and a good friend of his cringing at his waist, his eyes darted randomly, his mind racing to think of a spell.  

            "_Flat_, Seville, lie it flat!" he said, killing more time.  

            "Would you hurry up?!"

            "Alright!  Uhhhh, uhhhhh, okay, just, don't move now!"  And Edrick laid one of his hands palm-flat upon the top of the other and aimed them at the wound that Seville struggled to keep extended from his body.  Amidst the cries of the man on the table he closed his eyes and concentrated hard.  He murmured incantations under his breath, fumbled, and then began again.  He closed his eyes so tightly that it wrinkled his young skin clear to his temples.  And he completed the spell.

            White air slowly filled in between his hands and the injured arm, quickly accompanied by tiny bubbles flowing from surface to surface.  The spell shone brightly, and Edrick whispered energetically throughout.  The entire effect lasted only seconds, and when Edrick slackened his tired arms he quickly opened his eyes and stared down with what he knew was false hope.  Seville screamed out!

            Seville's eyes widened and he shook all over his body, looking up at nothing as if overcome with the most powerful sense of disbelief.  The dark abrasions along his arm began to spread, crawling up to his finger tops and wrapping around his upper arm.  Over the pain he could no longer scream, but only let out bitter hacks, as if choking on his own air.

            "Oh, it's not working!" Edrick called with exasperation.  "There's nothing I can do for this, Seville.  And the minister is away!"  

            Seville only shook his head weakly, giving up to the hot thumps of pain.

            "Wait a minute!" yelled Edrick and then he hurtled a table bench and ran into another room.  

            Seville's moment alone was the longest of his life.  Seething with pain, with sickness, he came to know the true meaning of hopelessness.  Adapting to the pulses, he no longer held his arm or moved at all.  He could only lie still and be consumed by it.  There was no growth to his thoughts.  They had been singled out.  He lingered towards a coma.  Death was upon him.

            But a frantic Edrick rushed back into the room, almost tripping over the scattered objects along the ground.  In his hands he held a glass vial filled with a clear liquid.  As he hunched over Seville's body he had to pry the lips open with his fingers, and he poured the potion in, trying to not spill a single drop.  There was a moment where the silence itself seemed to scream at Edrick.  His eyes were wide and frightened.  This was so far out of his league.  

            With a violent bout of coughs, Seville awoke, startled and aware.  His head spun swiftly, overcome with disorientation.  He breathed hard, in thick thankful gulps.  Forgetting the least where he was, he didn't notice that he was opening and closing his right hand in brisk repetitions.  Edrick didn't seem to know what was happening either.  He hadn't known what reaction to expect.  Suddenly grasping the near past, Seville brought his right arm around front and admired its mobility.  The dark bruises still blackened his skin and his veins still glowed faintly, but he couldn't feel it.  The pain was gone.  Risking a smile he looked to Edrick, who he suddenly viewed like a saint, and noticed the empty vial in Edrick's hand.

            "A cure potion!" said Seville, the strength in his voice apparent. 

            But Edrick shook his head sideways, "Morphine.  Don't try to stand up."

            Seville looked confused for a moment, but Edrick continued.

            "I can't cure it, Seville.  I don't know if it can be cured.  But I can stop the pain, at least temporarily.  You'll be out of it though.  When the minister returns I'll request his presence for this."

            The brief upset of hope did not anger Seville.  He closed his eyes in a warm self-embrace and then let his head rest back down against the table, still weak and floating on a euphoric release.  He felt dizzy.            

            "It was death, Eddie.  I felt it!" said Seville, but Edrick was still shaking nervously.  He didn't seem to want to hear about that.

            "Seville, I need to know how it happened.  I could do some research when I find time, after the centennial maybe."

            The word 'centennial' chimed in Seville's brain but he hadn't the strength to argue the point.

            "I was attacked.  I don't know what." He said lowly.  "I was looking for something."

            "What were you looking for?" asked Edrick, suddenly feeling more jittery.

            Seville had forgotten the orb in his pocket completely.  Pain will make you do that.  With his good arm, still afraid to use the injured one, he pulled forth the small orb and handed it over to Edrick.

            "Found it in a treasure chest.  Looks like a crystal ball to me."

            Looking at it clearly in the sunlight from the roof above, it was indeed opaque in its center, a dark gray gas, like storm clouds, puffed within.  The gas seemed both to swirl and remain stationary, perhaps just an effect of reflection.

            "Huh!  I think you're right.  Defective now, however," said Edrick, eyeing the orb closely, twisting it with his fingers, "When they are active they are clear.  You know, the church has something like this."

            "It does?" asked Seville, perking up intently.

            "Yeah, somewhere in the storage room, I think.  I know I've at least seen it before.  Oh, except the groove here is different.  Shaped like a flame on ours."

            "Well go get it, Eddie."

            "Eh, come on, Seville.  Don't act delirious.  It's just a broken crystal ball.  You should try to sell it at the fair tonight."

            "_Eddie!_"

            "Fine, I'll get it, sheesh!"  And Edrick stood, returned the orb, and headed back towards the same room he had found the potion.  He shut the door behind him.

            Again alone, Seville reveled in his rest, like sitting after three days jog.  He admired the speckled dots of light reflecting out from the orb as he twisted it with his good hand.  He found himself following individual dots as they traced the ceiling.  They felt close to him.  But then he blinked hard and set the orb down, it was mesmerizing him.  Seville detested the feeling of dizziness or tiredness.  A man of his talents held alertness sovereign.  But he couldn't fight it now.  The liquid that Edrick had given him; he could feel it within him.  The world was becoming hazy again; his mind was floating.  

            _Why did Dunnings send to get me that stupid orb?  I bet he didn't know that creature was down there.  Well, I'm gonna tell'em if I can just get off this table._

            Seville fell to the floor.

            _Whoa!  I'm sick!  _

"Seville."

            _I'll tell Dunnings that I'm sick, then he can't get mad anymore._

"Seville!"

            _What, Eddie?  Did you know that it's not really a centennial?  You see…_

            "Seville!  What has happened to you?"

            _I thought we'd already …Professor!_

            "Professor Sylum?" said Seville distantly, breaking out of his trance.  

            "Now, now!  This won't do, old chap!" said a warm voice, deep and precise.  "Got ourselves into a bad one this time, haven't we?"

            "Professor … I … monster …" said Seville, still searching for orientation.  Finally his eyes found the good doctor, but he was little more than murk in his vision.

            Dr. Darrin Sylum was tall, with vibrant brown eyes, a sharp nose, and wire glasses that hung low.  His light brown hair was academically pressed downwards, but he covered this with a tri-quarter steepled hat, dark maroon in color.  He wore fine dress clothing, centered on a beautiful maroon cloak that hung to his feet.  He smiled, intent but calm.  For a scholar he was built strongly, and even at this moment wore a short sword to his side.  All this finally came clearly to Seville's vision.

            "Are we here now?" said Sylum.  "I'd like to know what has happened.  I figured you'd be here after the soldiers ran over the _Lux_."  

            The voice still seemed to echo faintly in Seville's ears but with will power he pressed the sensation away.  He did not want to drop off like that again.

            "Dr. Sylum!  I'm happy to see you!" said Seville weakly but clearly.  "Have you ever seen anything like this?" 

            And Seville held his arm out, after which the doctor became very studious, eyes crawling up and down the wound.  

            "My word!" Sylum whispered.  He pressed his glasses up and reached his hands forward but decided not to touch it.  

            "Pain?" he asked.

            "Lots!  But Eddie gave me something like Morphus, or Morpheus, or…"

            "Morphine.  It's a pain killer, extracted from opium.  Strong stuff.  I wouldn't try to stand up just yet."

            "Yeah, he said the same thing."

            "Well, it's a good thing Edrick knows something.  You don't mind that I'm mildly surprised?  He couldn't cure you?"

            "Eddie can't cure a paper cut.  No, actually the spell … backfired," said Seville.  He looked a moment as if he might pass out again but then regained.

            "Okay, well, this is really something here.  I've never seen anything like it.  Still, I'll check my manuals.  You know this isn't my field."

            A door in the back opened and Edrick emerged, proudly carrying a small crystal ball, but he soon dropped his smirk and became sullen, nervous.  

            "Oh, I didn't realize you had come, Dr. Sylum," said Edrick, suddenly feeling as if he was losing control of the situation again.  Seville was _his_ patient, no matter how useless he was.  

            "I didn't mean to startle you.  Come, Edrick, what do you think of this?" said Sylum, also aware of Edrick's spastic tendencies.  

            "I will ask the minister when he returns.  There is nothing I can do.  It's rare, for certain."

            "What's that you have there?" asked the doctor.

            "Huh? Oh!" Overly concerned about Sylum's sudden presence, Edrick had forgotten about the orb he'd gone to get.  Remembering it, he grasped it firmly, as if to confirm its reality, and then he showed it forward.  "Oh, something that Seville asked me to get.  He found something like this … well, somewhere."

            "Hand it here," said Sylum, extremely curious.

            "Hey, I was the one who asked for it?" complained Seville, but the doctor just flashed him a blank glance and took the orb in hand.  He studied it carefully, looking so deeply into it that he went cross-eyed for a moment.  This orb also was filled with a dark stationary gas that seemed to spin in the light.  The groove along the side however was a wide and shaped like a solitary flame.

            "And you say that you have one of these?" Sylum said to the man lying on his back.  The doctor seemed to place a lot of importance in his question.

            "Yeah, here," said Seville.  He liked the doctor very much and would always respect his wishes diligently.  He knew that he lacked the average amount of respect for most people, but he made it up in his admiration of Dr. Sylum.  The doctor took the second orb in hand and studied it with equal fervor.  

            "Do you know what they are?" asked the apprentice clergyman, feeling on the brink of revelation, and not wanting it.  

            A funny look came over Sylum's face as he acknowledged the question.  His lips raised, and his whole body did the same.  The two other men could feel the coming of a miracle, a rapid gush of stunning information.  Sylum suddenly looked on the verge of pouring his soul out into the church.  But all he said was:

            "No. Nothing.  Just defective crystal balls, most likely."  He slackened, but continued to look at the two orbs.  His listeners slacked as well, granting each other a disappointed glance.  It really felt like something was there.  The moment had settled quietly when Sylum said:

            "But you know, I have something a lot like this in my office at the quad."

            The other two men perked up brightly, "You do?"

            "Yes. Oh, except the marker is different.  It's a water droplet on mine."  Sylum looked at them unbelievingly.  This was _too_ weird.  

            "Can I see it?" asked Seville, very intent on doing just that whether the doctor liked it or not.  In just those last moments he felt charged with a quest, and these little orbs had something to do with it.  He was _certain_.  Seville did not like to go without answers, and neither, in fact, did Dr. Sylum.

            "Of course!  Do you feel okay to stand?"

            "Yeah, yeah!" said Seville, trying to be strong, though he felt very weak on his feet once he had reached them.  Edrick was ecstatic to seem them go.  Equilibrium returned at last.  He slumped down in a chair, folding his white robes over so as to not rumple them, and breathed comfortably.  Then his eyes shot wide.  _Somebody has to pay for that morphine!  The minister is gonna kill me!_

            But Seville, with support from the doctor, was already out of the cathedral and making progress around the side of the building.  Then, just as he cleared the corner he saw a glimmering flash of bronze, his teeth clicked, and all was black.              


	3. Shindig!

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 3 ~ Shindig! 

            Herrik Gipson halted his feet and let out a warm gasp of air.  It was marvelous, as amazing as he'd heard.  He wanted to stand there for an eternity and enjoy the moment.  Few times in his long life had he known such beauty.

            Up from several red and blue striped tents shot swift rockets that sought the heavens until wafting down in gravity's grasp.  And then they burst, brilliant sparkles of color jetting the perimeter of the town, like a newly formed blanket of stars.  Gipson's cragged face reflected them.  Greens, yellows, and reds glimmered against his irises, changing them at their will.  The puttering thumps of the rockets exploding pleased the air, like a diligent snare cadence.  It was celebration, and it was wonderful!

            Gipson looked back to his entourage, a content smile on his face.  This was the best part of the job, truly.  He took a full-chested breath of the glowing atmosphere and admired the sight before him a moment longer.

            Over six feet tall and broad like a troll, Gipson would frighten all who gave him notice if he hadn't so perfected his smile.  It was friendly, flavored with the wrinkles of a wise man, and most importantly, adjustable.  Gipson had a smile for all seasons.  He would flex his muscles strongly and raise those peaks when he received praise, beam it out with the utmost humility.  But he could also turn it slight and shallow, the glint of a coming joke, and the audience would be ready for it.  Then would come a heckler and he would throw it into overdrive, a smile so bright the heckler went blind.  And, his personal favorite, he could turn it sad, a salute to times lost with hope still strong.  Herrik Gipson could change the world with a simple twitch of his lips.  He wasn't attractive, but that smile.  Wow!

            But time was already running late.  He would make a late entrance, of course.  It would give him a chance to practice his forgiveness smile, still under construction.  He turned his head and nodded to the men behind him.

            "Well, fellas?  Let's rock and roll!" and Gipson, followed by a modest crew, entered the grounds.  

********************

            The Corneria Centennial celebration is such a fantastic event that the four previous Kings of the empire considered changing its name just so that they might host one during their own reign.  By the second centennial, all connections with wartime propaganda had been excised, and the true meaning became commerce.  Covering the entire grounds between the township and Corneria Castle, the fair was a nineseven-day extravaganza of food, drink, shows, business, invention, and the highest of pomp.  Each of the King's family visited, a practical impossibility away from the splendorous event.  If nothing else, King Eliv, a popular but antisocial king, sure knew how to throw a party.

            No veil had been cast over the many tents and buildings.  No dark grief suppressing the gaiety.  The abduction of the Princess, the severe economic downturn, the new meagerness of life did not matter now.  Women and their husbands, young poets with their girlfriends, and the little children yanking panting dogs behind them, each of them basked in wonderment.  Even those dogs were filled with an uncommon zeal, chasing each other playfully.  The primary generation to experience the centennial was known as "God's generation".  And, indeed, it seemed that the deity was smiling upon them.

            At every corner were magnificent food stands, bringing delicacies from Elven and Dwarven lands.  The arts and crafts were of the highest quality, some artisans preparing a single work for the whole of their lives in preparation for the fair.  The contest started early that evening and went until the final day, considering thousands of submissions.  The fair was famous for bringing new oddities to Corneria: household appliances, new foods, games for the children, games for the adults, a new life!  

            But the greatest wonderment of all was the shows.  Jousting displays, wrestling, monster battles, cantrip displays.  Perhaps the only problem was that it was too much to see.  This first night was always the greatest.  The townsfolk, rural Cornerians, and tourists all helped spread the terrific rumors.  King Eliv was not a man that would not let them down.  He would have a true spectacle on this first night.  

            At the far end of fairgrounds, right up at the castle, was a gigantic paddock, a cage larger than had ever been constructed, and just for this very night.  The _event_ was to take place there.  People were already saving their seats.

********************

            Gipson's booth was far, far away, all the way up to the castle, and this he loved.  What better excuse to admire the attractions?

            He had to work his smile just right in this instance, enough to seem warm but not recognizable.  He didn't like to be swarmed when wearing his dress attire.  Herrik Gipson's face didn't really show his age much, he'd kept it healthy with more exercise that five normal men.  On top of that, his hair, brilliantly red and combed into various spikes, gave him that youthful energy that he felt.  Each time he passed a mirror he had to admit it.  He looked good.  He looked happy.  To confirm this he stopped by a booth with a chubby but humorously spoken man wagering to guess the weight, height, or age of any passerby.  He was right most all the time, but in case he was wrong you got a plush doll shaped like a forest imp.  Pretty good quality, too.  With all that Gipson was wearing weight was out of the question, but Gipson didn't want to hear that anyway.  He jubilantly dared the chubby man to guess his age.  

            "Forty-five!" exclaimed the booth attendant, his face red as if sunburned.  Though the man was clearly well-practiced, Gipson, hawk-like towards observational detail, noticed the man's hopeful stare after the pronouncement.  He was good, but afraid to make mistakes.  Gipson chuckled lightly.

            "Not even close, friend," he said, and then paid the man anyways.  It wouldn't do to reveal his age.  The chubby man was perplexed a moment but then he smiled back; it wouldn't do to ruin _his_ reputation, either.  Still, he was glad to see the failure go.

            Gipson always wore his best armor and full arsenal in such situations, a definite part of the persona.  Over the mythril armor, which was painted a brilliant red, the color of his hair, he carried one great sword, two long swords, three short swords, five daggers, seven different vials, a long bow and quiver, the arrows silver tipped, and oddly enough, a small book tied to a beaded chain around his potion belt.  It didn't even weigh him down.  He felt lifted by them, stronger by them.  God did Herrik Gipson love weapons.

            "Here it is folks, the sensation brought all the way from the Onrac Festival of the Waterfall.  It tastes great, it's lighter than air, and the kids love it!"

            Gipson, waving his entourage to the side, walked happily over to the booth, which was quite crowded.  The man on the stand wore a striped suit, complete with peppermint hat and cane.  His voice was clear and powerful.

           "That's right, folks.  I have met the creator of this wonderful treat myself, and he looked me right in the eyes and said, 'All I want is to make the children happy'.  Now, have a taste of that, young one, and tell the crowd what you think!"

            The man lifted for all to see a white paper stick covered with a pink feathery mesh, puffing into a bulb like cotton.  The young boy, just happy to be picked out of the group, reached forward and tore a chunk away, the small piece looking even more feather-like.  He placed it in his mouth and instantly began to hop.

            "Wow!" said the little boy, careening towards explosion.  

            "That's all I would need to here, folks!  Now, who else wants to get a part of the miracle?"

            The crowd swelled into an uproar and shouted at the cheery entertainer, raising their gold bags high over their head.  Gipson respected the showmanship.  That money just kept on rolling in.  And so with an honorary nod and wave of the hand that the showman never saw, Gipson walked on.  As he walked away, he heard the man begin another pitch.

            "How you folks doin'?  Have you heard about Lucky Joe's Cotton Candy?  Well, let me tell you about it.  We make it…"

********************

            Edrick Valance lifted his hand, stuffed his fingers into the groove of the other hand, and then repeated the process with different grooves.  Simultaneously he tapped his two feet in a sloppy drum roll and clicked his teeth together, rhythmically separate from his feet.  He kept his gaze at the mobile fingers, never looking up at those around him, not wanting to catch their eyes.  Just study the floor and it'll be over soon.  Why would they choose me for this?

            He still wore the white robes lined with burgundy; it was a requirement for an apprentice to do so.  He had long forgotten his meeting with Seville and Dr. Sylum only hours before, more pressing matters had presented themselves.  That sinking feeling, the proverbial butterflies in his stomach, kept him uneasy.  It wasn't long before he was rocking back and forth.  Why, why, why?  Fingers danced!

            "All the preparations are made for tonight, of course?" said the powerfully jovial voice, not a statement but a question.  Edrick silently whimpered before looking up to the glorious man.

            "Uh, yes, sir." He said with a stutter.  "Of course, sir.  All is ready, sir."

            The man let out a cruel laughter, strong enough to let his thin belly flop, and shook his head as he came down from it.

            "You needn't be so nervous, Edrick.  This man is a professional; the best!  I promise you that you will not have a worry.  Understood?"

            "Uh, yes, sir." Crumbling, crumbling, crumbling…

            "Speak louder!  This could be a big night for you.  Something to tell the minister.  I wouldn't allow my eyes to focus on my hands during the event, if I were you," the man said, peering on keenly.  Edrick pulled his hands apart so quickly that he almost lost his balance, and his right hand slapped hard into the wall.  He thought to grasp it for a moment but then decided to pretend it didn't hurt.  He'd completely forgotten he was doing that.

            "Of course not, sir!" said Edrick, trying to deepen his young voice.  Crumbling, crumbling…

            "Good.  And you realize the responsibility I am granting you?"

            "Of course, sir."

            "Good.  Then don't forget that you are the most important.  If something were to happen to the champion during the contest, if _that_ were the story that got around, the King of Corneria, _me_, made into a global laughing stock," the man, seething with intensity, brought his face up next to Edrick's, "Well, then, I just don't know what I'd do.  Understood?"

            Edrick let escape him a foolish terror laugh, but he choked it short.

            "Uh, yes, sir."

            Crumbling…

********************

            What was that color?  Were his eyes playing tricks on him?  No, with the lids shut so tight it must be his brain.  The synapses had filled with liquid and had altered the ocular transmission, resulting in hue shifts.  Not really that uncommon in the grand design of things.  That's what Professor Sylum would say.  

Ah, but what was that noise?  Like cannons off in the distance, the report of a death machine.  Could his ears be enacting a devious deception?  Perhaps attempting to quicken his pulse and lead him to a startlingly grotesque battle, fueled by the slaughter of hundreds.  The cannons of a frontal charge?

But what is all this now?  The reds and blues and greens and the reports of the cannons.  Why can he not escape it?  How did he become bound to them?  It feels important.  It feels like destiny.

Listen there, the cannons have grown close.  Another report and…

Seville awoke, a thick filmy veil upon his eyes so that all before him was dark gray.  But as he rubbed his eyes he saw that gray distance adapt brighter hues with sudden intensity, only to fade just as quickly.  As he struggled for vision he inventoried whatever he could, another of his practiced skills.  

He recognized first that he was damp and cold, then ground beneath him being made of wide block stone.  The only noise he could detect was his own foot scratching against the floor and the mild thumps from the distance.  His vision finally cleared and he looked about.  Before him the wall was indeed gray stone, smooth and finished.  A cot rested to his side, a small metal pan lying at its end.  The room was small, consisting of two identical walls, another wall with a small window in it, and a fourth side lined vertically with rod iron bars.  He had little room to move around, so he pushed himself up on the cot and rested for the moment.  Waking up was such tiring work.

It was his first time in prison, not bad for three years of active crime.  And his charges would be light, no doubt.  All of the stolen materials could be replaced rather easily, just a few errands to run on the matter, and perhaps just some community service.  They were always looking to force the younger generations into farming, and idea that made Seville shudder just a tad.

A flash of red…….thump.

His armor and daggers had been removed, of course, along with that weird orb.  Due to the lack of noise, he imagined he was occupying the dungeons alone, at least for the time being.  Looking out the bars as best he could he saw no guards.  That was strange.

A flash of green……thump.

It wasn't the best capacity but he still felt that soothing comfortableness come over him.  The walls, like the force of the darkness from the catacombs, wrapped him into a blanket.  Seville was sitting silently, admiring his situation without giving it thought.  Just drifting with time's river.  He shook his head hard suddenly.  You're losing it, Seville!

A flash of blue…….thump.

"What is that?" Seville asked the walls.  But when he stood to investigate the window he had to sit immediately, the spidery chills now crawling his body over.  His arm hurt again, he could feel it growing.  It would come again very soon.  

_I need to get out of here!_

********************

The vocal applause of the crowd was a low boom, growing like a coming stampede.  They quickly shot into a loud rally of cheers as the announcer stepped up onto the high stand and pointed his arms out to the crowd, pacing from side to side quickly and feeling the waves of sound.  His dressed formally enough and moved with a certain confidence.  The crowd was momentarily his, but he had his notions of humility.  When he spoke his voice was forcefully pleasant and excited.  The crowd tried its best to settle.  

"Ladies and Gentlemen, the…" but then a loud ripple of combusting fireworks popped overhead and it drowned his voice away behind a shield of fanfare and color.  Before continuing he shook his head with a smile and over exaggerated his laugh, all for the stage of course.  Feeling the crowd, he lifted his arms, palms up, to each side and twisted.  With a majestic thrust of each hand he regarded all that surrounded them.  He brought his head back around slightly low, giving the impression of bowing, and the audience rose again, hollering proudly and stamping their feet.  They were great, weren't they?

"Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls!" said the announcer, letting the resonant echoes of his voice ricochet through the crowd until they quieted.  "The time has come!"

More energetic applause followed, but the announcer would not be delayed again.  He had found the groove.

"The man you've been waiting to see!" The chatters of the audience were infectious, rising and falling like a bouncing ball.  To the announcer's left and right were massive tables lined with stacks of books, each topped with another book facing out to the crowd, the leather covers shining brightly the reflections of the flares in the sky.

"The man who has traveled the entire world in his lifetime, searching for exotic species and mystical lands."  The announcer quickly found stage left and made a broad arc with his finger atop a waving hand.  "Knight of the Coast, Lieutenant First Class!"

The left side of the crowd screamed out, many of them jumping up and down, but the announcer couldn't let it stand for long.  With long hurried, but precisely timed, steps he moved to the other side of the stage and made another arc with his finger, a mirror image.  

"Editor and columnist of Dragon Magazine!" And that side of the crowd began to hoot loud whooping calls to the man up stage.  The excitement was as palpable as a tornado.  The announcer shifted smoothly and centered himself with a grin, forming dual arcs with his fingers.  "Author of the _award winning_ Dragon Compendium!"  And the entire crowd was caught up in the whirlwind, but he would not give it to them yet.  He made a brief concessionary pause, forgiven by his visible chuckle, and continued, wagging his finger to his side now, point by point.

"He's here now to promote his new book.  The _definitive_ guide on monster lore and classification.  The Knights of the Coast Monsters Manual!"  The crowd slapped their hands together and called out hurrahs but they were not here for the book.  They were here for the man.  Knowing they very well might lynch him soon, the announcer decided it was time.  Alright, you all can have it!

"I give you…" one final stall, just for the effect, "Monster hunter extraordinaire!  Herrik Gipson!"

The wall of voices pushed the announcer back, but he hadn't seen anything yet.  He spun his arm to regard the stairs.

Behind the stage, Herrik Gipson put the finishing touches on his smile and perked up his vibrant hair.  Looking to either side to his helpers he said, "Showtime!" and then walked up on the stage.

The crowd exploded!

********************

He wasn't a remarkable king; not famous for good woks of any kind, but people typically liked him, and the centennial would be very much to his favor.  King Eliv didn't have the most regal of looks, with a sharp nose that pointed downwards and a flat forehead and weak chin.  Whenever he thought too hard his forehead would wrinkle in several small folds, almost the look of a dunce.  Add to that the fact that he needed glasses, had little meat on him, and had an overall insignificant stature, and King Eliv was little of a king to behold.  And so he learned to carry himself as majestically as possible.  The first rule of ruling is that it doesn't matter whether or not you know what you're doing; you just have to look like you do.  His wife had died of consumption a few years past, so he couldn't count on a beautiful mistress to heighten his appeal.  It was all him, baby!

He was standing at his throne, a temporary model that had been placed at the front of the castle where the holding cage for the event was built.  He'd found that being a king gave him little time to feel secure about anything, and since the disappearance of his daughter, a mind-boggling stupor had plagued him.  It was only now that he could look upon something proudly.  This festival, the entire order of which had been seen to personally, was so far an uproarious success.  Something that could only go wrong in one way.  

He surveyed the holding cage.  It was fifty feet on each side, forming a square with one side against the castle wall, which there was lined an incredible door that would be pulled open by over forty men.  And behind that door was the event.  As if he had known it would happen, he stared deeply into the door, looking beyond it, and suddenly came a strong, foundation-upsetting thump against it from within.  King Eliv felt it right to stifle his laugh at the poor man beside him for jumping at the sound.  

"Come now, Edrick." Said the king.  It would be time to head out soon and initiate the event.  He wanted to start as soon as possible but knew that waiting would be the more effective.  Some people had already established their seats in the grass field, but he had to wait for more.  And so he stood there, waiting for the right time, gazing out over the grounds, admiring the greatness.  He spoke but did not turn to Edrick, or even seem to care whether the nervous priest heard at all.

"They will remember me for this!" he said, an odd mixture of hope and obligation.  "I will not be forgotten!"

And the king stood solemnly.

********************

"Hello?" called Seville from within his lonely cell, but the only returning sounds were echoes.  When his mind had the chance he finally remembered that it was the night of the centennial, so figured the guards would be light, but they wouldn't leave him unguarded.  Would they?

But security didn't matter.  Seville was very sick.  An unnatural sweat already forming over his body once more, he'd had to lie down and cuddle his arm firmly against him.  It had started low as before but accelerated much more quickly this time.  Already his arm throbbed at each of the fast beats of his heart, sending sore shockwaves through him.  With his eyes closed, he could even see his pain, the pulses of the sickness leaving vein-shaped scars on his eyes lids.  He tried the best alertness exercises he knew, but to no avail.  Absorbing damp air through his nostrils and then putting it back out past his teeth, he still could not calm his building anxiety.  Tears of pain began slowly.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Dunnings" he said.

If help did not come he would be dead, very soon.

********************

The commotion took over five minutes to settle, but eventually Gipson could get control of the crowd, warding them down with the raise of his two big hands.  The whole occasion had been lit by glowing orbs placed atop hundreds of tall poles, and his hair shone brightly in that lighting.  Through his red armor and hair it looked like a massive flame pacing upon the stage bravely.  

"Ladies and Gentlemen," he said with a precise voice, "I give you the Monsters Manual.  Over three hundred and fifty monsters, each of them I've defeated personally, and here provide you with vivid descriptions, along with habitat information and useful combat techniques should you come across them.  No traveler should be without this invaluable source of monster information."  And Gipson lifted the small book chained to his belt up high for all to see.  "I never go anywhere without it!"

"How much?!?!" yelled out a man closer to the back, jumping up and down to get the best view possible.  The crowd gave an excited laugh to this and started to reach for the gold pouches.  Should it really be this easy?  Gipson lowered his smile a tad to qualify the situation but then put it back on full, a cautionary wave of his finger.

"We're selling them at a special price here at the fair, only thirty gold pieces for the entire manual, with limited edition leather bound cover.  Plus, just because I've looked forward to this night so long, I have signed each one personally, and will add personal messages if you return to the booth tomorrow."

So the book only cost about two gold pieces to produce, but the audience still seemed to like the price.  They pressed hard against each other, trying their sternest to filter in towards the stage.  

"But first, Ladies and Gentlemen, would no one like to hear a passage from the manual?  Come now, shout a monster out to me, I assure you it's here."

"Forest Imp!" came a loud heckler's voice from the back, met with surging guffaws.  Gipson took an effective double take and then, not about to be bested, picked up the book nearest him and turned to the page.

"Forest Imp.  A small goblinoid creature found in the forests and plains near the land of Corneria, distinguished by their communal structure, tattered clothing, and ambush like attack patterns.  Though they consider themselves ferocious opponents, a forest imp is rarely a concern for the common adventurer.  They attack with one to two knives and occasionally a short sword, but are never skilled with these weapons.  There parties will typically desist after few shortcomings."  And then Gipson turned the book face out with a finger upon the page. "And you will see here that the Forest Imp, along with every other monster in this manual, has a color illustration, sometimes done by yours truly."

Another rumble of impressed murmurs.  

"Have you included the were-dragon?" asked a brave voice from the crowd, and this question seemed to have an immediate stifling effect on the crowd, which then leaned its ear in intently.  

"Indeed, I have slain the were-dragon.  They are a monstrous beast!"  

"But, how could you defeat it?  The creature is invincible," called the same man, now making his location known.  Gipson let the question get across the crowd and then chuckled.  

"Nay, friend, the were-dragon is not invincible, though to an unprepared adventurer it may seem that way." And then Gipson skillfully unsheathed one of his short swords and brandished it for all to see, its polished surface luminous in the night's light.

"Silver?" asked another member of the crowd.  The crowd had quieted down significantly, each of them direly curious to hear of the fabled were-dragon.  

"A keen eye, sir.  Indeed, silver was in the mix.  But many travelers have discovered that a silver weapon is not enough to slay such a creature.  It regenerates with too startling a speed.  No, this is five times more powerful than silver."  And then the crowd fell dead silent, nervous glances every which way.  Those with any knowledge burdened their minds, but still could not find a response.  And then an old man somewhere in the middle spoke up, his voice soft with the utmost reverence.

"Werebane…" he said.  And the crowd exploded again.  Around Corneria, magical arms and armor were best left to fairy tales, as nobody had ever seen the real thing.  This was wonderful!  And Gipson did not need to speak again, but rather let the man enjoy his small celebrity.  He gave another wave of the weapon and then sheathed it.  And then the selling began.  Questions floated to Gipson and he always answered them in perfect form.  His knowledge of monsters truly was unrivaled.  Yes, this had to be Gipson's favorite part.

After a little time there was a loud blast on trumpets, quickly followed by, "Make way for the King!  Hail his majesty!" and much to the simple townsfolks surprise, King Eliv was riding right into the fair, up to Gipson's very booth.  He reined his horse and shot his head up with royal fervor, trying to keep his chest broad and spoke down to Gipson.

"Master Gipson.  I cannot express the pleasure of having a man of your incredible stature at our festival.  You honor us with you presence."

"Nay, you majesty, I am merely humbled to be given so good a land as I received.  I must thank you," said Gipson sincerely.  He had to deal with this type all the time.

"Of course!  Now, Master Gipson, I have arranged a special event to celebrate the first night of this incredible centennial.  A monster battle needing of the highest skill.  Would you mind a demonstration of your renowned technique for this first night of the centennial?"  And the king stared in at him pleasantly, but aggressively.  This was not a time to trifle.  Not that Gipson would.

"Why, I would be honored, your majesty!" and then he turned to the crowd, "Couldn't hurt my sales!"

The crowd bust out in joyous laughter again as Gipson, fully armed, mounted a horse the king had brought and rode off towards the paddock. 

********************

Darrin Sylum did not share the festive behavior of everyone else, even though he had been looking forward to this night for years.  Standing at the far end of the seating grounds where the event would occur, his head was turned down, deeply in thought.

These three orbs had come together so quickly and were identical but for a small grooved pattern.  There was an obvious answer in his mind but he made himself set it to the side.  That was old lore and nothing more than that.  His scholarly life had produced more abstract answers as well, but those felt insignificant in comparison.  This was so much more powerful than coincidence would allow.  All he needed was a starting line, a wave of the flag, and then his mind would take off.  But something resisted him.  But what?

The coming of the crown and ruby warrior had been met with standing ovation by the gargantuan audience, the excited conversation oozing over them, and now the warrior had made his way into the paddock, swinging his greatsword in mighty arcs for the crowd.  Introductions for the grand knight, along with a brief introduction for the medical staff, a short blonde man in white robes that clearly butchered all his cues before sitting at the far end of the paddock, were made, and then all was ready for battle.  However, before the king would allow the battle to begin, he gleefully announced that a reward was in order for the brave combatant should he survive the night.  An ancient family treasure the king called it, a Cornerian symbol of prosperity, and then he lifted it high.  In the king's small hand was a crystal orb about the size of a child's palm 

"Huh!" said Sylum, a startled laugh.  And then as smoothly as could be he started moving.  The flag had been dropped.

********************

Displays of combat were Herrik Gipson's second favorite part of the job.  For him they were the qualifier.  He knew that a lot of what he did was for show.  In order to make the sales you have to find the right persona.  But these displays were proof that behind the act was the skill.  He truly practiced what he preached.

There came a harsh, aggravated strike at the huge stone door before him, and this excited him, made his adrenaline start to fill his arteries.  He never feared combat; it was sloppy to do so.  Especially in the instance of having an audience, each of his movements would have to be calculated and precise, always giving off a demeanor of control, no matter the villain.  And by the sounds, this was a good one.

Twenty men on either side of the door, up on the castle bridgeways, began to pull on thick ropes centered on the door.  It slowly pried apart and then picked up steam and split open swiftly.  Gipson widened the gap of his feet and set them at a sturdy angle, squeezing the handle of his sword tightly.  He barely breathed as he watched his opponent step out into the ring, the creature the size of two houses.  

It was a dragon with a sharp noble snout ridged with spikes and beauteous wings that hugged in against it.  Its armor-like scales were frosty white, lined all the way down to his incredible tail, also ridged with rows of spikes.  It stood high on its four incredible legs, perhaps itself a showman, and displayed the immense size.  And then let an earth-shattering roar that set the crowd into a shocked quiet.  

Frost dragon, easy, thought Gipson, and then he said, "Rock and Roll!" and the fight was on.

********************

_Smack!_

Seville instantly awoke from his trance and placed his good hand upon his face, coughing in the suddenness.  But this action immediately lost all meaning.  The pain of his arm set in with staggering quickness.

"Here, drink this," said a voice and Seville obeyed without thought, how could he think of anything with this kind of hurt?  If nothing else the tart liquid was refreshing against his parched throat and when all the liquid was gone he slumped sadly.  For a moment there was no effect but a swirling coldness in his stomach, and then the tragedy in his arm began to fade, eventually to nothing.  The pain disappeared so completely it was hard to believe.  

"It is working?" said the imperative voice.

"Yes, the pain has….Professor Sylum!" said Seville with sudden energy. "How did you…"

"Not a lot of guards on centennial night.  They're all out there." And Dr. Sylum pointed to the window, out of which you could hear shouts and a roaring monster.  

"Yeah, but, but why would you…"

"Consider it an apology.  You got caught for doing something I asked you to do.  The least I can do is help out."

"But now they'll just throw us both back in the dungeons when we're caught."  Seville was utterly baffled that this man he so looked up to had come to save him.  

"I don't think so," said the doctor, clearly with much behind it.

"What do you…"

"Look, Seville, we don't have time for this now.  This is a weaker form of morphine you should be able to walk just fine, now hurry up.  We've got to get out of here."

And as simply as that, though drowning in mystery and confusion, Seville broke out of the Cornerian dungeon.  

********************

After attempting two swift slashes with its spiked tail, which Gipson gracefully dodged, the dragon desisted and began to circle the paddock, searching for that right moment.  Herrik Gipson, fully confident, chose the interlude to preach out to the crowd, all that could hear.

"The Frost Dragon can be quite the foe, and I pity any traveler who comes across one unprepared.  In order to defeat it, you must know the weakness."

The dragon took all of this as Gipson's weakness and he suddenly vaulted forward, a full dash.  Gipson turned instantly at the noise and evaluated the movement, ducked his head just right, and strafed to safety as the dragon bit down.  Gipson ran along the edge of the cage to align himself opposite the beast and then readied himself for another strike, but the dragon returned to patient pacing.  

"Of course, the Frost Dragon is sorely weak against fire, along with several other cold weather monsters, which is why it is vital for any adventurer moving through cold habitats to have some of these," and Gipson lifted from his belt an orange long neck potion bottle filled with a clear liquid that seemed to light up into short flames as he shook it.

"A simple fire potion will devastate your average Frost class monster and is the perfect intro into the offensive against the more powerful ones.  As you will now see." 

Gipson moved in closer to the dragon, which parried around the cage as a response.  But eventually the warrior drew close enough, and with his mighty arm he chucked the potion forward.  It sailed brilliantly, an orange beacon coursing the sky, and collided with the back of the dragon, flailing liquid flames over the hide of the beast.  Gipson flexed his strong thighs and began a frontal charge but he pulled it short and shifted sideways just as quickly.  The fire upon the monster's back hardened into small fragments of orange ice and then fell to the earth, the dragon seemingly unaffected.  But it was definitely offended.  Gipson knew what was coming and he took large steps backwards, bracing for the blast.

The dragon reared its head and then aimed, and along with its roar came both a strong jet of ice and one of fire.  Gipson jerked his waist and scrunched in between the two currents, one side of him chilling and the other singeing.  The crowd marveled it, frightened to the core.

A half-breed, thought Gipson, this is trouble! 

********************

"We're lost aren't we?" asked Seville as him and Sylum rounded a corner and faced yet another long passageway made of stone bricks and lined with ornamental suits of armor and high-hung torches.  Sylum stuttered a moment, but it was no use lying to Seville.  A flag would go up every time.

"Yes.  It would seem so."

"Well, that's fantastic." 

"Hey, don't criticize the man who's both getting you out of jail and keeping you in medicine.  Here, let's go this way."

"We've been that way."

"No, we haven't, now come on!"  

They had been sprinting to begin with but now could barely jog, Sylum slowing down much faster than Seville.  They had clearly taken a wrong turn somewhere, and were discovering with every hallway that the castle dungeons were quite a vast.  This new hallway gave several more paths to choose from, and always Sylum moved into one confidently without a moments thought.  

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" asked Seville as they chose the left route of a T-junction.

"Do you think I know what I'm doing?" Sylum asked back ironically with a humorous glance at Seville.  

"Call it wishful thinking."

"Well, hate to let you down, Seville."  And then Seville proceeded to run at his mouth about the uselessness of this entire effort.  How could a political scholar not find his way out of a prison?  

"Hey, now, you're the rogue among us, Seville!" but Seville didn't have this and continued on with every breath.  Deciding to allow it, Sylum had been listening to the sounds of distant voices that came occasionally in strong pulses.  All his turns were headed towards them.  Where there are voices, there are people, and the people are outside.  And now they were growing rapidly, just a little bit down the hall maybe.  And then he saw an open door down the side of one passageway and they ran towards it, but by now Seville was so emphatic with his ranting that he was paying minimal attention.  Just as they were upon the door they heard tumultuous cheers and clapping, followed by a terrible roar.  Sylum and Seville rounded the corner, Seville still going at it.

"Seville!"

"Sixthly, it should hardly be regarded as…"

"Seville!" and then another loud roar.

"High expectations that a public teacher posses certain…"

"_Seville!!!_"

"What?" and Seville heard the four thick clomps of a creature's feet colliding into the soft earth very near by.  He looked up:

"Oh…" and the dragon smiled at him, "_Shit!_"

********************

"Fools!  Get out of there!" yelled Herrik Gipson, rushing in to the dragon and trying to attract its attention.  The dragon had acted quickly and thrust itself before the doorway so that the newcomers could not retreat.  It made a few hasty snaps at them before they ran off to the opposite side of the fence, yelling at each other the entire way.  The dragon reared up and prepared to chase but Gipson intercepted and swung his long sword at its legs.  It growled angrily.  

Gipson unsheathed a short sword to use in his off-hand and made for another advance but the dragon jumped with its back legs and then caught itself in the air with mighty flaps of the wings.  With what space it had it flew in circles over the top of the cage, still eyeing the two new morsels that reeked of fear.  

"Watch out for it!" called Gipson, knowing what was coming and he charged off towards the two men.  But the dragon was swifter and it dived in at them, filled its lungs, and sent the two jets to tear up the ground.  Seville quickly somersaulted off towards the center but Sylum was sliced across his left side with shattering slivers of ice and sent hurtling into the fence.

"Professor!" screamed Seville and made to return to him but then a hand grasped his shoulder firmly and it pushed him back.

"Are you crazy, boy?" said Gipson as he rushed past, now holding his long bow and firing at the dragon.  His quiver was running low.  Seville rose to his feet and charged after this red-armored man with a single movement, and then overtook him with his speed and grabbed Dr. Sylum by his arm.  The dragon, seizing the moment, trotted in and made to bite them through but then yanked back as an arrow stabbed into its broad tongue.  Gipson was upon the beast again and he pulled another of his long swords, this one glowing with a green haze about it, and he moved in and slashed at the underbelly.  The dragon cried and lifted up from the ground once more, soon to prepare another breath.

"That was some quick work, boy, but the both of you need to get out of here.  Are you alright?" he asked the doctor.  Sylum adjusted his glasses which had miraculously stayed on and said that he would be fine.  Now all three of them were at their feet and they turned to find the dragon, still flying about.  The whooshes of air from each flap could almost knock from your feet.

"Disperse," commanded Gipson.

"What?"

"He won't land until we do, now move it, try to get to the other side.  He'll use his breath weapon first so be ready for it."  And Gipson galloped away from the two men, who could not move at first.  The dragon chose that bait and dove in at him, readying its breath.  It landed just before the armored man and shot the weapon but Gipson had briskly ran under the monster again and made quick slashes at the thick scales.  The dragon hopped sideways and swung his tail into the man, who went coursing through the air for twenty feet and collapsed near a far wall.  The strike had also knocked the sword from his hand, and once standing he unsheathed his last remaining short sword.  The dragon was already pounding its feet towards the other two men, who had split up and were trailing opposite directions along the fence.

The dragon came upon Seville who rolled forward and jumped over a low slash of the tail.  The grand creature headed Seville off, and so he ducked under one of its stomping feet and ran out from under it, but the creature took little time to realize this and it turned and bounded upon the running man again.  Seville could barely push his legs over the powerful thumping of the blood running through them, but he did enough, and soon the dragon was struck hard on the head by a potion, which quickly became wreathed in blue flame that then turned to ice.  The dragon roared, but the roar was weaker.  Some of Gipson's strikes to its underside had penetrated and the blood loss was becoming great.

It slapped its tail into the earth and Seville lost his footing under the tremble and toppled to the dirt.  Before he could push himself up the dragon was upon him and it kicked its front paw into the ground in an inescapable pin.  Sylum had already been running towards the monster, brandishing his own short sword, but the dragon jetted a breath at him and Sylum was again sent back.  The dragon tried another roar out to the cage and then faced down at the man in its paw, its toothy maw wrenched apart.

Gipson knew he couldn't make it.  The dragon had his victim halfway across the paddock, and there was no time remaining.  And so Gipson began his charge and held the short sword back behind him.  But then he pulled the blade forward quickly and released it, pitched it into the air.  The light from the glowing orbs caught the magnificent blade as it shuttled across the cage, making the silver glimmer like bright stars.  Gipson shouted as loud as he could, and for the briefest moment the dragon looked up at him, and that was when the flying sword struck, a perfect penetration to the throat.  

The shock made the dragon heap upwards and then fly confusedly for only seconds before it fell to the earth, letting out pitiful gasps.  In a fury it aimed at Gipson but when it tried to breathe only the jet of ice came out and it ended shortly.  The dragon milled its hands into the soft dirt, like a cat pawing at a scratching board, and tried its best to move forward, but tripped again.  The creature let loose a couple horrible groans and then all was silent.  The dragon half-breed, slain at last.

********************

And the grounds were stunned.  The hundreds of people stayed in their positions at an absolute loss for expression.  It had all been so dramatic that they now surged with cathartic heat, a single vibe that connected each person to every other.  Over a thousand statues dotted the fair grounds, their cold eyes bulging out of wide lids, around them a silence that pervaded the mind.  And then a single chipper snap of two palms against one another rang out, vibrating from statue to statue.  The echoes settled, wafted down and absorbed into the soil.  But then the snap came again, so loud that it shook the stony foundations of the others.  So then another crisp beat of skin followed more quickly, and then more and more.  And by now several hands working against each other, developing into a veritable drum roll.  And then the hollers began, confident from the first and building.  Soon each man and woman was sending overwhelming ovation up from the ground and into the wondrous sky.  And still they were one.  One consciousness, washing wave after wave of happiness forward to the paddock, smiling bright as the sun.  

********************

Feeling the windstorm of voices upon his back, Edrick Valance ran into the paddock and over to Sylum, who was now kneeling down weakly.  

"Just a moment, Doctor Sylum, lie down and I will cure you." 

"God help me!" said Sylum, but he still obediently lay down on his back.  Edrick performed the cure spell successfully this time and the doctor got to his feet, a thankful look of amazement on his face.

Seville was happy to see him well and they stood together for the moment, coming down from the rush of the battle.  Gipson was combing the arena and picking up the bulk of his lost weapons, wiping them free of blood, and sheathing them.  Afterwards he joined Sylum and Seville, along with Edrick, in the center of the arena.  They couldn't really hear each other over the screeching sound of the applause but perhaps words weren't necessary.  They stood and admired the fallen dragon.  Also because of the noise Sylum did not hear the coming of armed guards, and didn't notice them until they had grabbed him arm to arm and pulled him taught.  They fell upon Sylum as well.

"Wait a minute, you can't…" said Sylum, but it was futile for the moment.  The crowd settled quickly when the king stood and cast an arm out.  He motioned for the guards to pull Sylum and Seville back, to be dealt with later, as he would first reward the victor of his contest.  This was not the time to ruin the incredible moment.  Once the crowd found silence he spoke out, a sincere attempt at booming:

"Bravo, Master Gipson!  What a wonderful display of courage under unique circumstances.  You truly have proven your mastery.  Take now, your reward."  And the king walked to Gipson and personally delivered the orb, a nod of approval.  Gipson, still regaining his stately composure, bowed and gave his thanks.  But he was concerned about these two men from within the castle.  The king walked over to them and spoke.

"Doctor Sylum?  An unexpected meeting this is.  And who is this here?" but one of the guards broke in.

"He's a prisoner, your majesty.  He must have escaped from the dungeons.  He will be returned immediately and the guard at fault will be seen to."

The king, currently willing to look past the interruption and the terrible service of his guard for sake of the situation said simply, "So be it then, leave the Doctor."  

The guards released Sylum, who brushed off his red robes quickly and then turned to Seville, watching the young man's head droop low.  He figured something like this would happen, it was now or never.

"Wait!  Your majesty, you cannot imprison this man!" he said loudly but with a fear in his voice.  Where should it go from here?

The guards halted for a moment to hear the king's response, which came with a jovial laugh.  The night obviously had put him in a very good mood.  

"And why is that, doctor?  Is my sparing you not enough good will on this night?" He asked with regal affirmation, and it made Sylum look small.  The doctor glanced nervously about, a hand twitching in his cloak pocket.  

"Because…" he said but his tongue was tied.  The crowd was silently watching the scene.

The king smiled and motioned for the guards to continue.  Seville gave Doctor Sylum a glance, one of longing appreciation, and then dropped his head once more.  Voices began to travel from person to person in the crowd, everyone had finally placed their feet upon the ground and it was over.  What a night!  But Sylum reached inside and forced out the courage, and he called out as the guards neared the castle door.

"Your majesty, you cannot imprison this man because … because he is a light warrior!" he said firmly, trying hard to keep his face stern

"_I'm a what?!?!_" cried Seville flatly.  No one knew quite what to do with this.

 "A what?" asked the king, now slightly annoyed.

"A light warrior, sir!  A mystical hero from the old legend.  He is bound by destiny to do good, and so he must not be imprisoned."  The king stared at him for a moment, and then decided to bite.

"There are four light warriors, Sylum, and when they come they will carry the magical orbs.  This is a criminal that will be dealt with as usual.  Where is his orb, and where are his companions if he is a light warrior?"

"They are here, your majesty.  They've come together just as the legend predicted." And here Sylum pulled from his pocket three crystal orbs and showed them high to the king.  "The light warriors of destiny are here."  And then Sylum tossed one of the orbs to Seville and one to Edrick, who fumbled and had to chase it across the ground.

"This man, named Seville, is the keeper of this magical orb, just as I have owned this one for many days.  The apprentice clergyman, Edrick Valance, also is the keeper of an orb.  I had brought the three together to study them and only now know what they are.  And Master Gipson, you are the fourth of the light warriors, as you have now been gifted the final orb.  We are the light warriors, your majesty, we just didn't know it until now."

The king stared blankly at the doctor, who had begun to blush in the silence.  So much was riding on this.  And yet, the king for some reason wanted to believe it.  Perhaps it was just the night's infectious euphoria.

"What proof do you have?" asked the king.

"No proof yet, majesty, but we will get the proof together."

"And how is that?"

And Sylum stared just as intently back at the king, hoping not to deliver this badly.  Since he had stepped into the cathedral what felt like years ago though it only be hours, Sylum had felt this coming.  Felt this incredible sense of power over himself, lifted on the wings of greatness.

"I … _We, _shall rescue your daughter!"

The king flushed, and all was spoken.             


	4. Sword and Dagger, Tome and Prayer

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 4 ~ Sword and Dagger, Tome and Prayer

            "Okay, let's hear it then." 

           Dunnings closed the tavern early so the four could be alone, even retreating himself to the underground living quarters.  The size of it was noticeably immense when so unoccupied.  They looked lonely at the single table near the bar, a few candle flames flickering uneven light upon them.  Without even realizing it, Edrick and Seville, who sat opposite each other, had positioned their chairs closely to doctor Sylum, and the bulky Herrik Gipson was solitary, a distant face enwreathed in shadows.  Those that wanted something to drink could have it, but that was only Sylum.  Off to another table Gipson had unloaded the stacks of equipment, but they were always within a moment's reach.

            "You mean about the legend?"

            But it was more than an empty tavern, a creeping darkness depressing the surroundings.  It was the same within.  They were alone now.  No more words had been exchanged with the king, only a worried nod and the release of the captive.  And they had not been met with cheers befitting legendary heroes, but fearsome glances like those of wild dog's, unsure of a coming master.  The people were not silent, but they did not speak to the four, and their comments did not make it so far as them.  Suddenly choking under a horrible weight, the warriors of light passed beyond the crowd and towards the town, not sure what to feel, an uneasy Seville leading them to the only place he knew.  Only the doctor smiled, and there was fear in it, the worry of realization, the worry of mistake.

            "Of course.  If I'm going to go on a legendary quest it'd be nice to know the legend, I think," said Gipson, bringing his head in closer to the light and trying to make the best humor of the situation.  He found he still needed to put on the moves.  He was an outsider.  It was inescapable.

            Three of them had done their best to make small talk, friendly enough, but they were stifled.  Even Seville couldn't find anything relevant to say in those first moments.  Edrick, however, had said nothing at all, or even looked at the others with any social relevance.  His eyes read the cracks of the tavern walls, counted the chairs, reflected the candle wick, and studied his twitching hands.  Seville was subdued, keeping his arms lazy to his side and saying what came to his mind, if anything.  But his energy had not faded from exertion, or from one of the doctor's potions, but instead faded from a dizzy release.  Not long ago he was but a single crush from death, a swift moment from feeling the toothy maw of a dragon.  This warrior, Gipson, this Knight of the Coast really was magnificent in battle.  A thought came to Seville's mind, forcing him to ceremoniously look between the three men and cast a secret smile.  Each of them had saved his life today.  

Seville and Edrick gave a concessionary glance to Sylum.

            "Well," said Sylum, trying to sound as humble as physically possible, "The Lux Aeterna is a very old legend, once widely accepted but now fallen to the wayside like a children's story."

            "Lux A...?" sounded Gipson, a confused and uplifted brow, Seville broke in.

            "Lux Aeterna.  Means 'Eternal Lights' in ancient."

            "Right," said Sylum, "So anyways, the legend says that four warriors will appear holding four orbs of light, one each for earth, fire, water, and air." Sylum pulled his own orb forward and held it above the candle, groove forward. "See here, a water droplet for water.  Edrick's has a flame, Seville's a mountain range for earth, and if you check yours, Master Gipson, I believe you will find a progression of lines resembling a whirlwind.  For air, obviously."

            Gipson removed his orb curiously from his pocket and surveyed it first himself.

            "Quite right," he said, and then placed the orb on the table.  It was the identical size and make of the others, distinguished only by the swirling ridges and…

            "Hey, it's clear!" Seville said, craning his neck in.  The orb was not filled with that mysterious gray gas, but shone transparent from end to end.  Through it the person across the table seemed to look back at you, only distorted and stretched.

            "Huh," said the doctor, lifting it close.  "I suppose it is still active.  A good sign if you ask me.  So, according to the legend these four warriors will appear at times of global turmoil and will restore order to the world."

            A moment of silence.

            "And that's supposed to be us?" asked Gipson, a severe note of doubt.  

            "Well the evidence stacks.  We have four," and Sylum gave a concerned glance at the distant Edrick, "Ahem…four warriors and four orbs, and while I can't speak for the state of the world, Corneria is in great turmoil.  Fields of crops have failed, our primary mines have run dry, we're a diplomatic puppet nation, and topped on that, our leader's daughter has gone missing."

            "Why has the king not rescued this princess?"

            Seville chimed in, cutting Sylum's prepared answer off, "Because the king is only interested in the festival.  He's blessed to have it in his reign, and wasn't gonna let something like the abduction of his daughter ruin that.  He's not a bad king but he's a popularity grubber."

            "Would not a triumphant search for his daughter improve his popularity?"

            Seville and Sylum bounced a look between each other.  As usual, they were on the same wavelength.  Seville spoke:

            "Why do you think the king is letting us do it?"

            "Ahhhhhh!" mused Gipson.

            "Think of it!  The coming of the light warriors, whose first job becomes the rescuing of his daughter!  Eliv will be the most documented king in history.  He saw it and grabbed it!" said Sylum, building steam.

            "Yeah, and less than a percent of the population will have the brains to notice that the coming of the light warriors actually speaks badly of a king." Seville continued.

            "I don't understand."  And then another glance between Sylum and Seville.

            "Follow us, big guy.  If the light warriors come at times of great turmoil, then it doesn't speak highly of a king that his reign was characterized by turmoil.  The light warriors are the solution to crappy rulers."

            "Right, but nobody's going to catch that in the history books."

            "I guess only you boys will!" said Gipson jovially.  Seville and Sylum usually didn't like it when somebody couldn't keep up with them, a haughtiness that edged on vice, but Gipson was different.  They found that they liked him immediately.  They both secretly noticed that he had an infectious smile.

            "But even though it seems meager on his part, such a character trait actually works to our advantage in this situation.  Saves us a lot of time at least."

            Gipson nodded acceptingly but then looked to the neglected side of the table, where a blonde young man in white robes was looking up, as if he were counting the planks along the ceiling.  With an up-thrust of his eyebrows he regarded Edrick to the others, a questioning look on his face.  It was difficult to be an intimate outsider.  He longed for the invisible shield between an audience and the stage.  Seville shook his head with a silent chuckle.

            "Eddie!"

            "Huh, what?" Edrick stumbled as he shot out of his trance and quickly surveyed the table to see what had changed.  "What?"

            "Are you with us?  On board with us, Eddie?" Seville said carefully.  He knew very well that Edrick would be difficult to convince.  In fact, almost nobody would go along with the professor as quickly as he, Seville, would, but Edrick might not go along with even the minister on something like this.  Seville suddenly flared with an anger at Edrick's peevishness, something he couldn't quell.

            "We can't do it without you, Eddie.  You're a part of this.  You know that, right?" he said, and Edrick focused his attention on Seville.  The three of them would be too much at once.  Even when he spoke it was low and directional; Sylum and the worried Gipson had to lean forward.

            "It's just that … well, I don't see four warriors." Edrick said, sending Seville abruptly to the defensive, but the other two remained calm.  "I see one warrior, keeping company with a thief, an accomplice too smart to be one, and a no-talent priest who's gonna be discharged when the minister learns that I helped you out, Seville."

            Seville did not envy Edrick's persistent rationality, even though they were among what Sylum called "the same peer group".  With such child-like mannerisms, the busyness of the fingers, the isolated attention, the neurotic sheepishness, Edrick could hardly be called a man, but Seville could also not call him a boy, no boy has the pension for caution like Eddie Valance.  Still, you could admire how the freckles upon his pale skin, crawling up over the bridge of his nose and pooling over each cheek made him look like a boy, much more of one than Seville.  This was how Seville always thought of it.

            "No talent?  Come on, Eddie, surely you're good at something.  Not cure spells, obviously, but certainly something!" said Seville with a friendly grin.

            "Seville." Dr. Sylum cut in.  "Now, Edrick, warriors are not always defined by combat prowess.  I don't deny that Master Gipson is the most obvious warrior among us."

            "Well I guess that's good," rang in Gipson with a full-bellied laugh.  This white- robed boy concerned him, but past that concern was a comfortable vibe.  This might not be so crazy after all.

            "And I know you have seen Seville practice with his daggers.  His swiftness is key to any battle."  And Seville pulled a dinner knife from a holder upon the bar and spun it quickly through his fingers, tossed it back and forth a bit, and then launched it upwards where it spun in perfect circles, came to an apex where it seemed to hang for an eternity, and then sliced downwards, landing with a dull thud back in the holder.  Seville gave a confident smirk.

            "And you, Edrick, your white magic, regardless of what this one has to say," an authoritative jab at Seville, "will be invaluable.  Master Gipson, as a seasoned adventurer, tell young Edrick the importance of a healer to any traveling party."

            Gipson perked up, his head bobbing a few times and his shoulders becoming flat and centered, "Um, yes, well, since I put out books on classification, often the human side of the story is lost."  And then, for just the briefest moment, but there for someone as keen as Seville to see, Gipson traced his thoughts.  He was treading carefully.  "It would be bad for my career if I discussed how very many times I left a battle with but an inch of life left.  I never adventure without a white mage of some kind.  It's vital, really."

           "Exactly!" rooted Seville, "Don't you see, Eddie?  You're the glue!  You gotta be a part of it.  You're a light warrior, you're kinda required to." 

            Seville peered on with glimmering hope in his eyes, adding a brilliance to the reflected flame, but Edrick was still soft, nervous.  

            "And you?" Edrick said to Dr. Sylum.  Sylum looked surprised at the question, but evaded a look of anger if it was there.  Seville knew that the doctor was trying to avoid that topic.

            "Me, well, I provide diplomatic support," said Sylum, fastening on an unsure grin that Edrick wouldn't have.  "And, um, I can hold my own in a fight!  I've trained many hours."

            "Besides, he's bound to it, because if it turns out to be wrong, he's gonna pay for it!" chided Seville and he laughed hard along with Gipson.  They allowed themselves to enjoy it, because the tension had dropped to the side.  It was obvious that Edrick was in their grasp now.  The pressure had decreased.  As Edrick slumped low in his chair, his characteristic sign of defeat, the rest of them fed smiles out to the bar.  The tavern suddenly did not feel small or even feel to be there at all.  They were alone, but they were whole, blanketed by a title: Light Warriors!

            "But how are we gonna find the princess?" asked Edrick, still looking for an out, "People don't just disappear everyday, and they have a startling low recovery rate."

            "Oh, I don't think that should be a problem," said Sylum matter-of-factly, but then pausing because he knew someone would ask.

            "And why is that?" Edrick did the honors, but the other two were just as intent.  Seville especially was eager to find what the doctor had up his sleeves.  Sylum had his moments when everything just glowed.

            "Because finding the princess isn't a principle concern given our situation."

            The three stared at him; something had taken a step backwards and they were lost.  Even Seville was confused for the moment.  

            "But we don't even know where she is?" cried Edrick, though emphatic speech from the young priest was more a whimper.  Seville and Gipson turned their heads, admiring the tennis.

            "We don't need to know!  Edrick, you need to realize that you work for destiny now.  Light Warriors are infallible.  Tomorrow we'll set out, north sounds good to me, and we'll find the princess, because destiny dictates that we must."

            "Wait a minute," broke in Gipson with a forward push of his beefy palm, "You expect us to go out there without any kind of game plan?  We could ask around first!"

            "No need!  It's tough to accept, but you'll have to understand that from now on, none of our choices are really our choices.  There's only the illusion of choice here."

            "I don't understand how you're coming up with this, Doctor," Gipson said, shaking his head, and suddenly worried.  Edrick had chosen to return to counting the ceiling, he'd decided to join, and shouldn't that be enough for now?  Seville, however, was lapping this up.  Sylum was putting out the goods tonight.

            "Okay, just stick with me.  Destiny, fate if you like, is basically the lack of choice.  No matter how obscure or unbelievable it seems, everything we do is set.  And it feels like you can escape it, but you can't.  Even if I'm mortally wounded and Edrick decides not to cure me, just to prove me wrong, it will just be what he was already meant to do, and since Light Warriors are immortal, something would have to happen to save me.

            "_Immortal?_"

            "In a temporal sense, yes.  We have a destiny that nothing can keep us from, no matter how difficult the road may seem.  If the legend states that we are destined to bring order to the world, then we can't die until we do that, can we?"

            "I guess …"

            "It's paradoxical!  If you could look into the future and know the moment you're going to die, then until that point, one could assume to be immortal.  But that doesn't work.  Just to prove it to his girlfriend some poor kid would jump off a cliff and kill himself."

            "But I thought you said…"

            "I'm getting there!  This is also a paradox, presumably the kid would find his time of death to be that time he jumped off the cliff, but then if he sees that, he's probably not going to go jumping off any cliffs.   But it's different for us.  We're not seeing the future, we're predicting it, and that's okay, because we have destiny on our side.  We have something that gives us a hint!  

            "I just don't even…"

            "But remember, because this is important.  You can't act on this knowledge.  Doing stupid stuff to prove fate wrong doesn't work, because the stupid things are a part of your fate.  They have to be.  Similarly, my blatant choice to set out unprepared on this mission is really the only choice I could make, and changing that choice wouldn't avoid destiny.  You can't avoid it, only agree with it."  And Sylum allowed himself to stop and rest.  The tavern was quiet a few moments, Gipson struggling, his face scrunching in and showing his wrinkles, which Seville noticed.  Edrick, having paid little attention, looked down to regard the quiet but made no comment.  Seville allowed a satiated smile, content.

            "Zen adventuring!" he said with gleeful affirmation and Sylum nodded back to him appreciably.

            "Exactly" said the doctor.

            "Zen?" Gipson asked, not sure if he should continue trying.

            "Discovery through enlightenment.  How did you ever write a book?" joked Seville but he felt badly afterwards.  Gipson took it with a flash of his eyes that was quickly submerged.  And then the moment was allowed to settle further.  Things were calm.

            "You know," spoke Seville, "There's nothing in the legend about saving a princess."

            "Seville, please!  If we don't save the princess the king is not going to let us be Light Warriors.  This is going to work."

            "I trust you, professor, I was just saying!"

            "Well don't say it!  You'll worry Edrick!"

            "Huh?" Edrick dropped his head quickly and shot from side to side.

            "Nothing, Eddie!" And Seville started laughing heartily.  For all his spastic excess, at least you could have some fun with ol' Eddie.  He and Seville had been friends for ten years.  Their parents had known each other, so they didn't have much choice in the matter.  But it was a strong friendship.  Differences aside, there was something under the surface, an intangible certainty between them.  It was trust, unbreakable trust.  Seville felt it there, and knew it was real, or else Edrick would have seen him thrown in the dungeons long ago.  Not often does a do-gooder, and a priest at that, go back on his principles.  No, you had to be something special for that.

            "Well, tomorrow then, Gents," said Gipson, looking out the window at the pitch darkness.  A mix of glances swapped around and the motion was passed.  Sylum and Eddie rose along with Gipson; Seville sat for a longer moment but then stood to see them away.  Sylum drew up the four orbs and gave each to its owner, he seemed to place great weight in the doing so.  

            "Morning?" asked Edrick and Sylum answered.

            "Of course!  Don't be dense!" and then Edrick walked out the tavern and headed to wherever.  As Sylum got to the door he turned and waved Seville closer, suddenly very serious.

            "You will come to the quad?" he asked, deeply.

            "Yeah, I'll, well … first I've got to talk to Mr. Dunnings."  Sylum looked hurt for a moment, as if disappointment had already taken him, but then he flattened his expression and nodded politely.

            "Right," he said, and walked out the door.

            Herrik Gipson was still fitting on his many weapons, an act he did with quiet precision, as if the perfection in the act be important even at such a time as this.  His hands were slow but dexterous; it looked almost like a ceremony, ordered and significant.  He was silent, and Seville would not break this.  He watched it with a blank gaze.  The fluid motions of Gipson, his tall head erect and covered with noble features, a strong nose, pronounced chin, lengthy eyes, his broad figure, seeming to float over the table, and his hands, thick but refined.  It came off of Gipson like heat.  This was a great man, thought Seville.  More than he could be.  And the building admiration mesmerized him, almost soothed him.  

            At last Gipson turned and gave Seville a warm smile, one of his favorites.

            "Sorry about that.  Not easy being a walking tank," and he chuckled comfortably.  "Tomorrow then."  Gipson made his way to the door before Seville returned with something.

            "Master Gipson?"  Why was he so meek all the sudden?

            "Please, call me Sir." Another chuckle.  

            "Have … have you ever seen anything like this?" Seville pulled the sleeve back on his shirt, revealing the sullen bruise covering most of his arm up to the elbow.  Gipson's smile faded, even drooped to a frown.  The skin squeezed in around his eyes, showing those wrinkles again, and he showed stern contemplation.  With an assured hand he took the arm and brought it near, he studied the glowing veins and how the inky scar wrapped around Seville's fingers like dark flagella.  The moment was murderous to Seville, horrible anticipation burning in his gut, and then Gipson released and let out a breathy sigh.

            "It's called ghost rot, from a very powerful apparition by the looks of it.  A shadow wraith, most likely," Gipson said lowly.  He seemed to be choosing his words with certain thought, "This is very bad."

            "What, I mean, do you know the cure?" Seville said with weak hope.  Gipson didn't look like he had anything.

            "No cure.  Nor can you be cured.  Ghost rot feeds off positive energy."

            "So," a quiver growing in his voice that he fought as best he could, "what will happen?"

            Gipson let out another heavy sigh, "Whether you feed it or not the rot will spread.  Soon, whatever you're doing to fight it will stop working, the pain will be insurmountable.  Ghost rot is … well, it's just tangible evil.  Concentrated pain.  And that pain will become so great it kills you.  There's nothing wrong with your body, but the pain will be so immense that your mind would rather be dead.  I've only heard of instances where people accept the whole disease.  Every man in my experience to be inflicted has begged for death, and it was given to them as quickly as possible.  A nicety."

            Seville felt as if each part of him was individually falling, each atom a drop in the waterfall.  Chills scuttled south down his skin line the legs of centipedes, each hair taking its own moment to rise and sting.

            "So, there's nothing?"

            Gipson tried his sad smile but quickly took it off.  It was the wrong cue.  "Some people I've dealt with say that because the problem is not physical, if you truly believe that it will go away, it will.  But nothing has ever been documented.  This is bad, Seville."

            "What can I do?  Anything?"

            "You can only be careful.  Constant vigilance.  You will tell the doctor?"  Seville looked up to Gipson's stern face, the liquids in his skull swirling.

            "No.  It would worry him, and he would begin to doubt."

            "But he will say it is your destiny.  He will not worry."  Gipson said with a strong affirmation in his voice.

            "It's … Professor Sylum is more complicated than he seems.  If he knew about this he would not allow me to go, and I feel that I must.  There's more to it than his destiny theory, he's knows it.  I won't tell him." Seville saw disapproval in Gipson's face, but it was with respect, the knight knew little of these men.  Still, to smooth it over, Seville added, "Not yet, anyways."

            "You understand that it worries me as well?  The rot is not something you go adventuring with."

            "Yes, I know that.  But you will not tell them, right?"

            "Of course, not.  It is your business.  But they should know.  Honesty to the group, Seville.  I'll take it over destiny any day.  Try to get some rest."

            And Gipson tried to smile, but in the weakness it probably went unnoticed by the infected man.  Gipson pushed open the door and took a breath of the night's crisp air.  Seville watched him, a pall of shadow descending over the lands, up to the end of the street, and then turned back into the bar.

********************

            Seville had studied his fearsome arm a few minutes more but decided to shroud it once again.  That was a distant concern really, nothing at all.  A thousand strikes from that creature's scythe he would gladly take before what was coming.  He blew out two of the candles and then returned to his same seat.  There he controlled his breath, intentionally long and deep, trying to calm that guilty flame within.  He wrapped his arms together, eyes getting lost in the blue arcs and diagonals crossing over the tables.  He wanted to stay that way.  No adventure, no light warriors, no eccentric Sylum or skittery Edrick, no friendly Gipson, and especially no Dunnings.  He felt drawn, as if he was insistently reaching for that serenity, always slipping through his fingers.

            Sudden thick steps to his side told him that Dunnings was coming from beneath.  The large man rose above the counter and walked around.  The single candle on the table cast light only up to his nose, and his eyes were left beyond the grim horizon.  They gave only dull sparkles.  His face was slumped.  Seville saw his hands were full.       

            "Here, you're friend from the school brought these by after … well …" Dunnings placed a belt down on the table.  Inserted into it were Seville's twin daggers.  The belt lay limply, like a dead snake that Seville was afraid to touch should it spring to life and strike him.  Seville did not even look at it, but still remained quiet.  Friend from school?  There was an encompassing tension in the air, but he wanted to let Dunnings move first.

            "Quite a day," said Dunnings, still keeping sentry above the table, casting a weighty glance down.  "The centennial was impressive.  I wish I'd had more time there.  The first night is supposed to be the best, but I guess I'll have more time in the coming days."

            Seville let the words drift around; there was no landing for filler.  "Yeah," he said, "It _was_ quite a day!"  

            It was awkward, each of them uncertain.  Seville hated that bitter stare coming from Dunnings.  He couldn't face it.  Dunnings's eyes had arms and hands to grasp, choking fingers around Seville's neck that shut out the light.  Why does getting your way always feel so bad?  Minutes passed, but finally Dunnings spoke, a hidden condescension in his voice.

            "A light warrior, huh?"  That snapped it.

            "Mr. Dunnings, I think…"

            "Wait your turn!" Dunnings yelled.  His voice had found a shout quickly, a fiery anger behind it.  He centered himself and let out two firm breathes and then continued, slowly.  "I've given a lot, Seville.  I've given a lot to you.  And I've tried hard, to do what is right but still let you be.  I'm not your father, but…"

            "Don't…" Seville tightened at the mention of his father, he could feel his heart slapping against his temples, the pulse making him shake.

            "… But I like to think that I have made some of the right choices.  Choices he might have made." Seville hated how still Dunnings's voice was, so sure and angry.

            "You don't know…" but Seville could not finish a thought.  Glaring anger rose in him so quickly.

            "But I'm at a handicap, you see.  My choices are harder, because I will never get the respect from you that you gave to your father.  It's something I've dealt with for a decade now."

            Seville wanted it to end, he was filling with an ugly hate, blacker than even ghost rot, but he did not want to let it out.  He feared to let it out.

            "I have always respected…"

            "No, Seville!" Dunnings began to yell again, his thick voices piercing the halls.  "Don't say something you can't support.  Don't try to deny this burden upon me.  I've tried, Seville, but still you get into the kinds of things you do.  Thievery!  Jail!  And now you're going off on some holy quest!  For what?  A history teacher?"

            "Don't … do that!" screamed Seville, rising to his feet, trying hopelessly to match his godfather's boom.  "What is it you want?  If you want me to stay, I'll stay!  Just say it!"

            "No, Seville, I don't want you to stay, I gave up on trying to control you."

            "What, then?  Why?!"

            Dunnings tried to calm a little but he flared instantly, "What I want is appreciation!  Appreciation for everything I've been through, and everything I'm gonna go through.  For as many mistakes I've made I can still ask that you show one ounce of appreciation, for all my hard work on you." His voice softened a little.  Seville was gripping the top of a chair, crunching it in his frigid hands, his teeth chattered as he talked.

            "I … never tried to…"

            "So am I selfish, Seville?  Selfish for asking a return from the job I took?  Well, if I'm selfish … then _damn it!  I deserve to be selfish!_"

            "You're not…

            "Because how do I feel, Seville, when I remember your father entrusting you to me, and then watching you do the things you do?  How does that make me feel?  Heartbroken!"

            "Stop it…" Seville was shaking all over.

            "Because I'm going to die one day, Seville," and then Dunnings voice seemed to break, high octaves of pitiful sadness, "And then I'm gonna have to tell him!  Look him right in his eyes and tell him that I failed!"

            Seville screamed out, slamming both his hands so hard into the table the legs gave way and then pointing an accusatory finger.

            "_Stop it!_" his voice was high, screeching, and tears were forming in his eyes.  "You will _not_ use him against me!"  And Dunnings was startled, a hurt flash of his eyes.  "Nobody asked for this!  I don't want it, and you don't want it, and he didn't want it!  But I can't change that!  And you will not use this pain I've felt against me.  I won't apologize for my father's death!"  

            And the tears began to roll down Seville's pale cheeks, his voice trembling and weaker and his bottom lip rapidly bouncing back and forth.  "Because, no matter how bad I may want it, I can't have him back.  And sometimes that's all I want in the world.  Mr. Dunnings, sometimes you try so hard, but still without him I feel like I've got nothing.  Like I'm nothing!"

            Dunnings could not respond, so Seville dropped his voice, wanting to take back so much of what little he'd said.  He wanted everything to go away.  "Mr. Dunnings, I know I make a lot of mistakes.  I do stupid things, and maybe that means _I'm_ stupid.  I don't even know why I do them, but it's not your fault.  It's my fault.  Always."

            Dunnings slumped, let his bulk rest down on itself as the tension passed.  The tears slid down Seville's face as he continued, "But, don't you see, this thing, the light warriors.  I don't care about some legend.  But stupid or not for the first time I'm doing something good, really good.  And the professor, and Eddie, and even the knight.  They like me!  And that makes me like myself!  So I just want to be with them."

            Seville paused to give Dunnings a chance if he wanted it, but he said nothing, only looked on with drooped eyes, soggy with moisture.  He had brought them into the light so Seville could see, and for once Seville could look at them firmly, the anger passing, but still these two men were miles apart.  An inky void between.  Seville spoke slowly once more, assuredly.

            "I'm sure, very sure, that my father wouldn't want me to be so alone."  And those words drifted in the air a bit, falling on the large man before Seville.  "I will not go without your blessing, but I do want to go."

            And there was a moment there when all things were uncertain, when all things floated above and swirled around them.  Seville was drained, empty but for a single hope that suffocated more with every breath.  The dragging silence brought fresh tears that he fought back with sad gulps.  But then Dunnings spoke, soft and morose, distant, defeated.

            "Godspeed, Seville.  I ask you return safe, and with that knight around I'm sure you will." But Dunnings would not even look up; attain a final image of the boy for his mind.  As Seville picked up his belt and walked out of the tavern, he thought terribly of how certain he was he was going to die on this journey, and that Dunnings would have no final memory of him.  He had looked away.  Perhaps it was a memory that Dunnings didn't want, Seville's final hour also his lowest.  

            Outside the shadowy pall had not lifted, the earth still covered in an infinite sadness.            


	5. Random Encounters

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 5 ~ Random Encounters

            Dr. Darrin Sylum was as chipper as he'd ever been.  He'd decked on his finest non-dress attire, a bright red cloak and skillfully crafted leather armor that he'd picked up early that morning at the fair.  It was way too expensive, but that's hardly a concern for a light warrior.  He had a shoe and hat cobbler put refurbishing touches on his tri-quarter steepled hat, and even found a white feather off the ground to put in the band.  All his traveling equipment was fresh as well, a water-resistant nylon bedroll, a spacious backpack he'd filled with his books and potions and extra glasses, a non-stick cooking skillet (another of the fair's big attractions), and even a miniature coffee maker.  All very expensive, all not a concern.  But his finest possession, and that which he was most proud of, was his new short sword, finished by elvish artisans from Elfhein itself.  It glowed an absorbent blue even in the morning's light, and the scabbard was so well crafted of druid's wood that it too could serve as a weapon and withstand many blades' strikes.  This had broken the rest of his bank, and he was sure that his light warrior status had granted him a discount, but what did it matter?  He was meant to have it, as a light warrior.  Did you hear that?  Light warrior.  Boy that sounds good!

            He hadn't been able to sleep that night from all the excitement.  It almost made him dizzy-headed.  Finally forfeiting the chance, Sylum had gotten up and entered the beautiful dawn and walked down to the fair grounds to find his provisions.  To him everything suddenly looked brighter, every piece of the world suddenly filled with enormous purpose.  They had greeted him pleasantly along the tents and booths, a confident smile on their faces.  It had taken time to settle in the lesser mind of the average Cornerian, but now that it had sunk in, they realized they were saved.  The light warriors had come and soon all their problems would wash away like a morning's tide.  King Eliv had really delivered; the first night of the centennial had been quite the event.  

Having stocked his equipment and readied it for journey, Sylum removed his new short sword and performed _katas_ he had learned out of a manual.  The steps were mainly wrong, but the Cornerians didn't know that, and Sylum sure looked good doing them, that brilliant sword sparkling back the pink and turquoise hues of dawn's horizon, sending crisp images of color into the eyes of the salesmen and early bird shoppers.  A night of missed sleep would not depress the energy in him; he flushed with it, seeping with charisma.  The day had come for Darrin Sylum.

There was a fountain in the center of town, built upon a natural hill, and this was the decided meeting place of the four.  Sylum was the first to arrive, which was as he wanted it.  The statue in center of the fountain was of King Ranier, husband to Queen Tchai and founder of the centennial celebration.  An actual crown, built just for this occasion had been fashioned for the statue and Sylum spent his down time admiring the golden sparkles set against the distant horizon, the rubies and sapphires seeming to glow.  It was a magnificent work, a staple piece for any artisan to admire, and something too good for the old statue to wear.  Sylum noticed the statue's shoddy refinements, the folds along the skin weak, the nose small and downcast.  This king had no backbone.  Sylum mused over how his new sword looked better than the king's.

The second to arrive, much to the doctor's surprise, was Edrick Valance, equipped with minimal packing and still wearing his uniform of white robes lined at the cuffs with red stitches.  He had not tended to his hair, which was mashed into spiraled clumps along one side but still smoothly bowl-like on the other.  Edrick yawned as he approached the fountain, his eyes efficiently scanning the surroundings, searching for the others, a going away party, the minister, anything.  Just scanning.  Just in case.  

"Happy to see you come!" chimed Sylum, his voice almost bouncing.  

"Well I'm required to be a man of my word," Edrick responded dully, still a tad sour perhaps.

"Ah, but you never actually gave us your word."

"Are you suggesting I…"

"I'm suggesting that you've already gone beyond my expectations, and I look forward to being further impressed in the future."  Sylum smiled, a scholarly sense of acceptance, but Edrick didn't seem to care.

"Right…" he said, and then he lay down his pack are started twisting around awaiting the coming of the others.  He wanted to see them coming, and already, in just these very few moments, a short apprehension had developed in him.  Would the others not come?  Had they abandoned him already?  Worse, had they left him with … _him?!  _Sylum was apparently dancing, jumping briskly from side to side and making not-so-graceful sweeps with his sword.

Edrick had also not slept.  His night had been occupied by three mutually pointless endeavors: pacing, mumbling, and packing the wrong equipment.  More than once he had stopped himself with a slap, tore away from a trance, and then studied the contents of his feverishly stuffed pack, only to sulk angrily and turn it up over, spilling the contents to the floor.  Skittling across the stonework would be empty vials, stacks of holy symbols, a handful of signet rings, about ten drinking cups, several decks of cards, and so on and so on.  What kind of stuff is that to be packing?  Under his breath his mumbles were frantic, and yet repetitive, the same half-brained ideas trampled over again and again.  They were excuses mainly, something to tell the minister, but also snuck in there were attempts to build himself up.  Light warrior, huh?  Stupid, but maybe.  

Even then, next to the ivory fountain, orange in the early sun, Edrick rolled speech softly passed his lips, his glance affixed on a wandering nothing, and yet, so certain was this fixation that Edrick did not hear the metallic jangle of the coming man.  Indeed, not until the tall giant of armor came upon him and slapped him on the back saying, "Wake up, Bucko!" did Edrick realize that the knight had arrived.

Herrik Gipson, though you wouldn't know it under any other circumstance, was quite possibly the most beautiful man on the planet.  It was his custom to lead off each adventure in full battle dress, finished by his complete arsenal.  His silver full plate shone an astonishing mixture of amber and gules, glossy like his hair.  Each of his weapons was fitted into scabbards of the same make and tinting, poetic symbols etched down their lengths.  His pack was swiftly thrown to the side, a pitiful detractor from the splendor of world famous Gipson.  Across his equipment belt his potions had been restocked and then doubled in number, but still the single book hung from its chain.  Logically enough, he'd left the helmet off so that his vibrant hair could jut off into its fancy spikes.  Looking like this, his secret wrinkles had departed, and his face appeared smooth and young.  Were the sun to his back, with his chest lifted so high and readied, he very well might have eclipsed the continent.  And over his eyes were dark-set spectacles; sunglasses, he called them.

"But one of us to go, Gents," said Gipson with a flashy bow.  Immediately Sylum and he connected on an unspoken level.  Excitement; it virtually percolated between them.  

"Yes," said doctor Sylum, "I worry that he will be a late show."

"He was to have words with someone about this, correct?" asked Gipson, conversationally.

"Yes.  His godfather, Mr. Dunnings who runs the tavern, you met him.  He will not be keen on this, but he will accept it." Sylum put some strength into that, feeling determined, but then he said, "Seville did not show at the quad last night where we were to meet, but I was not too surprised.  He will come; I'm not worried about that."

"Then I will not be worried.  Since you are our … unspoken leader I'll say, I will trust your decisions."

Sylum stood on his tip-toes briefly and beamed out a smile so pleasant that even Gipson was impressed.  He couldn't deny that he liked this knight, and he found it no wonder that his popularity was so renowned.

"And what about you, Edrick?" asked Sylum, "Are you worried?"

"Huh?  What?" Edrick had drifted away again, but Sylum only chuckled.

"Of course you are!" he said, and to this the large knight laughed heartily.

Gipson had slept deeply and calmly the entire night through.  The next day was an excitement for him but one he would contain for the sake of well-being.  He knew that the others would be bothered, whether eager or not, and that they would miss out on the much needed rest.  Surely this was not the best adventuring group he could accompany, but the quick-starting camaraderie left him warm inside.  It felt right with this group of four, from the headstrong doctor to the quivering priest.  And when he awoke that very morning and sucked in those first few breaths of crisp morning's air, a strength surged through him like electricity.  The air was different on the mornings of adventure, especially the first day.  It was sharp and precise and aware and somehow fuller than ever, drenching him with life in every breath.  He'd been looking forward to another eight days of acting, book signings and sales pitches, but now, oh, an adventure had called to him, something so sparse in the realm of celebrity that he'd forgotten the stalwart power of its voice.  And he heeded it gratefully, a kind of Gipson worship.

"A remarkable day for such a thing," said Sylum, eager to bask in Gipson's heraldic glow.  Sylum knew that he was silently criticized by many people throughout the Cornerian township, new ideas were never on anybody's favorites list, but now he had so much more before him.  And most of it all was celebrity, an undeniable importance to those around him, and his mouth salivated for it.  His admiration of Gipson grew with every second he spent realizing that this knight before him was a master of celebrity, so attuned to its graces and yet not a sham, the battle with the dragon had been proof enough of that.  Sylum could learn from him, and would.

"Quite beautiful indeed, Mr. Sylum.  I don't know about lore as you do, but I'm certain that heaven's canvas shining down on an adventurer like that cannot be a bad thing."  An affirmative glance crossed between Sylum and Gipson, proud and intact.

"Seville's here."

Edrick's voice startled them so suddenly that it almost shot away their vibe, but they regained it and turned around to see Seville coming slowly up the brick path, his shoulders low and discontent.  Still, he was dressed for adventuring, his studded leather armor fastened around simple clothing, his daggers sheathed and readied, and his pack filled heavily with equipment.  From a quick glance at that distance he was skeletal.  His pale white skin did not seem to reflect the gentle sunlight, and his eyes seemed sunken in, leaving sullen dark patches like nothing more than a skull.  As he approached the dark pockets of shadow beneath his eyes became more apparent, and his brown irises were a closer hue to black.  His dangly hair had been handled briefly, but now resembled bars around his head as if it were stuck in a cage.  He did not offer a smile, and that depressed the chattiness of Sylum and Gipson.

"It did not go well?" asked Sylum, almost fatherly in tone, and Seville shook his head back, like a disciplined dog.

"No."

"What did he say?"

"Ya know, I don't really wanna talk about it, okay?"  And with that he stopped approaching and gave a stand-offish stare, deep into the others.

"Of course, Seville.  The time will come." Sylum said and let it drop as easily as that.  Gipson offered an upswing of his eyebrows but could think of nothing else and Edrick did nothing specific at all.  

For that moment they stood, admiring the growing realization that the ultimate choice had finally come.  All talk before had been for show, all deliberations merely something to pass the time.  The real moment was now, and it seemed to set on them an unbearable weight.  Only Gipson had felt this before, and he recognized it in the others with a longing remembrance.  Ah, to be so young.  So then he put on one of his smiles and got them started, turning northwards to the path out of town.  

"Well, there it is, Gents.  Just waiting for us to take it by the horns."  And the others filed next to him in a line, sharing his resplendent gaze to the distance, "It's probably a long road, shoot, I hope it is, but we've got something between us that I've never felt before in all my long years of doing this.  We've got the real thing.  For all the experienced soldiers and mages and priests I've pleasured myself in aiding, only now do I feel the power of the real deal.  Dr. Sylum, I don't know what to think about this theory of yours, but I know that I want this either way.  How else can I put it?  I feel good!"

"And I, too!" added Sylum, trying to roll it along to Seville or Edrick but to no avail.  

They let it rest in them a moment more, the absolute release of all bounds and the escape into a world of wonder.  The point of no return was consecutively so terrible and so great, a push and pull of all things.  And standing there, shoulder to shoulder, they impressed their visages upon the earth, each different and defined.  Gipson smiled at the feelings of mixed comfort and mystery, a sudden adventure of overwhelming importance.  Sylum smiled also, but at thoughts of the prize, at thoughts of simply _being_ a light warrior.  The eagerness thrilled him, and he felt like he should be hopping.  Seville burned his eyes against the long path but felt the welcome melting away of so many things.  His lips were turned down and hardened, his arms set firmly by his sides.  There were so many things he had to find out about himself and finally the chance was before him.  Behind his stony gaze were all emotions in the vast spectrum, from excitement to fear.  And Edrick, poor Edrick, was gently shaking his head from left to right, his boyish cheeks brought up high, a subtle whimper in his throat.  How did things go so wrong?

To everyone's surprise, Seville took the first step, and a journey began.

********************

            "Okay, how about a commemoration toast to our first day?" asked Sylum, boasting a cheerful smile to the others and digging down into his pack

            Seville, sitting to Sylum's right, protecting that side of the fire, said, "You can't drink a toast with water, Professor."  Seville had livened up already, the three hours walk before camping for lunch having done him some good.         

            "Not a problem, my dear boy!  I've got something better, picked it up at the festival this morning."  And Sylum finally had grasp of what he was seeking, and just before pulling it forth he glanced at the others.  Seville was eager and dressed himself with a much needed smile.  Gipson, sitting across the low fire, also smiled, still euphorically enjoying the bright sunny air and moderate exercise.  Even Edrick had come around a little, comfortable in the assurance given by the fact that they were not already dead, nor had they even been attacked.  He looked on, allowing a faint intrigue, as Sylum nodded and pulled out four small glass bottles, painted red with white stripes traversing from top to bottom in sinusoidal curves.  Sylum started handing them around energetically.

            "I don't think alcohol is such a good idea, Professor," said Edrick, holding the frail bottle away from him as if it was diseased.  "What if we were to come across a band of monsters, or…"

            "Oh, come on, Edrick, a little taste never hurt anybody," responded Sylum playfully before he started laughing at Edrick's stammering, insulted body language.  The priest slapped the bottle down into the dirt, the brown particles shooting up and sticking to the condensation, and then he huffed and looked back to the fire.  Sylum saw that Gipson and Seville both were careening towards bursting laughter, and so he broke it away.

           "I'm messing with you, Edrick.  You're going to have to relax if you want this adventure to be of much use to anyone.  It doesn't have any alcohol in it.  In fact, that's kind of the point."

            "What do you mean?" asked Seville, swirling the dark brown liquid in the bottle but still not removing the cap.

            "Well, as the salesman put it, 'If you don't like your kids gettin' worked up on hard drinks but don't have time to go to the well, then, just give'em one of our soft drinks.  Not a drop of alcohol but just as sweet, you'd think it was candy.'  They had a big assortment, so I got a few, seemed like a good thing at the time."

            Seville squinted in at white writing along the grasp of the bottle, sounding out the syllables, "Co --- ca ---- cola?"

            "Yeah, that's how he said it.  Said it was their most popular flavor.  Lots of weird names like that, though, we'll try a few more later.  While supplies last as it were."

            As Sylum spoke, Herrik Gipson snapped open the top of his bottle with a powerful shake of his palm and held it high, a single ray of sun bounding off the curved neck, a downed half of it in one gulp.  He followed this with a dramatic sigh, brushing the chilled air of the drink over his tongue, and then he brightened.

            "Wow!" he said, "That's good!"  And the others immediately went to work on their cokes as well.  Sitting there, listening to the crackle of a daytime fire, watching the smoke lift in small puffs, and absorbing themselves with wilderness to each direction, they felt whole and unabashed.  It was pleasant.

            The trek so far had been uneventful, their process swift but not burdensome.  On the contrary, it felt like the soles of their shoes were cushioned but millimeters above the earth, clean and buoyant air left between, and that they really floated onwards, their packs light and comfy.  Seville most of all had felt the release of burden, as if his troubles were attached to Corneria by an unbreakable chain, and in leaving the town he also left them.  Along the wide expanses of plain and forest he was confused and excited by the wonderful mixture he received of freedom and containment.  He had escaped, but escaped with those he admired.  It was suddenly so easy to not be a shepherd of gloom.

            After making what Gipson considered a good distance, they settled in to lunch, frying up what little meat they could bring without spoilage in Sylum's nifty pan.  It was light, but Gipson commented on this as well, saying that an adventurer must consume little, just in case a battle should come.  Loving the vibe, no one spoke concern of moving onward after lunch.  They silently agreed to enjoy the moment for what it was, each of them uncertain of what was to come.     

            "What's that book you carry, Master Gipson?" asked Edrick, maybe as a penance for being duped by Sylum, and at the question Gipson chuckled with pleasure.

            "Monsters Manual Abridged, travel size.  The first draft even, only one of its kind, but probably not for too long.  The Knights plan to sell them, but we're still going through some format changes.  No room for the pictures you see." Gipson lifted it and spread, revealing endless, dense text.  "I like to keep it on hand just in case."

            "Hey man," chimed in Seville, sipping his drink slowly, "Read us something.  Ya know, something exotic!"

            "Well, I suppose if we've got the time I could…"  And then Gipson spun his head quickly, darting a furtive glance into the far brush lying at the foot of the forest.  The other three froze at his brisk action and sudden silence; they could just slowly crane their necks to follow Gipson's stare.  The party sat in an open field a little over a hundred yards from the forest.  The noises emerging were common and ordinary, birds and the scratching of branches against one another.  But Gipson's ears seemed almost to stretch, as if to increase their horn and capture a distant rustling unheard by all others.  All sounds around them seemed to magnify, as if each of them now had an unknown importance, but when Seville finally asked, "You hear somethin'?", Gipson only returned a confused nod followed by:

            "I thought so, but whatever it is it stopped."

            It was unsettling to say the least, and the feeling pervaded even when they returned to idle speech, Gipson detailing adventures where his keen hearing had played quite a part.  According to him, he could hear a blade being unsheathed a mile away.  But it suddenly felt like a mask, especially to Sylum who was surprised to find that sometime during the silent moment his hand had gripped his short sword and prepared to use it.  Without thought it had happened.  Sylum noted with a chill that doubtless a battle was coming one day.  _One day_, he was going to have to fight.  

            Gipson had not been talking for much longer, Seville and Edrick leaning in with fascinated stares, when he shot around hard again, pressing his gaze even deeper into the brush.  At once his eyes connected with a movement unseen by the others, a pattern of motion within the leaves just beyond the range of the wind.  He followed it across and back, until the others had almost decided to call it quits on account of their knight going mad, but just then a creature emerged from the bushes and vaulted towards them, moving slowly on its little legs.

            "Is that…"

            "…a…"

            "…Forest Imp?" finished Edrick for the others.  Gipson's eyes, equally keen, squinted and then widened back.

            "It would appear so."

            The singular forest imp was beating its legs hard, swinging its two tiny arms on each side in quick jerky motions.  Outstretched in its right hand, distinguished by a pale glimmer, was a dagger.  It wore tattered green clothing, stripped around its body like long threads over a pincushion.  Its skin was pale and rotten, with a spiked nose and miniscule eyes all black and sharp.  But they couldn't tell all this yet.  At this pacing and at this distance, it would take the imp over a minute to be upon them.

            "Is he, uh, attacking us?" asked Sylum, a giggle just under his breath, and it was the same for Gipson.

            "It would appear so."  By now they could hear the frantic panting of the little imp, high and squeaky, fast-paced in short gasps.  Still a ways to go, the imp maintained its charge and wildly swinging limbs.  

            "Uh … alone?" asked Sylum, still confused, still amused.  Gipson finally broke his gaze and looked over to the doctor.

            "It would certainly appear so."

            "But I thought they didn't attack by themselves," said Edrick, far too concerned for the likes of a single imp.

            "Well, it looks like this one's going to, Edrick," said Gipson, admiring the steadfast approach of the creature.  By now they could hear the growls under its voice, like those from a tiny dog.  Another thirty seconds maybe if it didn't desist.  Somehow the party was at a lack of physical response.  They sat and watched it come, a communal face of bewilderment thrown out around them.  

            "Okay, if this is to be our first encounter," started Seville, "Then I propose we leave it to our dear white mage, Eddie Valance!"

            "_What?"_ screamed the priest, backing a few steps defensively.  

            "Oh, come on, Edrick, it's just a forest imp.  Here, I brought something just for you." Sylum said before digging into his pack and quickly removing a slick metal canister, cylindrical with a wedged top sporting a small hole on one side and a button on the apex.  "Catch!"

            As usual the priest dropped it but he clawed it up quickly, "What is it?" he said.  

            "It's a mace," responded Sylum, eager as with all his festival finds.  The imp held his charge; they could here the soft wheezing of the creature hacking for breath.  Perhaps this imp had asthma.  

            "This is no mace!"

            "Of course it is!  Just aim it when the time comes, try not to hit yourself.  One shot in the face should do the trick."  

            "And with that we better make room, Gents," said Gipson before standing, stretching quickly, and then walking around behind Edrick, clearly in the mood for this sport.  Seville and Sylum followed, and before the three stood Edrick, shaking and holding a thick canister pathetically in his hands.  _Shaking_, and all over a stupid forest imp.  

            The imp was finally upon them and, politely, it briskly hurtled around all of their materials and ran hard at Edrick.  It growled quick, choppy goblinoid speech, and the spit flung freely from his maw as it did it.  With a two-legged pounce it dove at Edrick who, summoning power he didn't know he had, quickly sidestepped and the imp fell into the dirt.  Frenzied, it jumped to its feet and rounded towards Edrick, ready for another strike.  After gaining some speed it performed a similar lunge that Edrick equally dodged, once again dirtying the face of the imp.

            "Use the mace, Eddie!" cried out Seville, though it was good fun watching the priest do something right for a change.  Edrick nodded and aimed the canister, assuring that the hole was faced out.  His index finger rubbed the button until it was warmed with sweat while the imp prepared once more.  Another lunge, another dodge.

            "Now, Edrick!" commanded Gipson like a wise master, and the priest ran in to the creature and depressed the button.  From the hole jetted a thick mist of sparkling droplets that blew into the imp's face.  The imp immediately dropped his dagger and started crying out in terrible wails.  It scuttled its bony hands over its face and bit up and down frantically.  Edrick jolted back and watched the pathetic little goblin stumble stupidly as it gnashed it its own face.  Its beady eyes scanned the party for a few moments and then the imp turned and ran back towards the forest, crying the entire way.  Seville in those few moments realized that no more awful and sad noise could be known than that of an imp crying.  Part of it broke his heart.

            There was nothing to say.  _Nothing!_  They stood momentarily, absorbing the weirdness.  Edrick especially was at a loss, the canister still jittering in his hands.  Seville thought at first that Edrick might find some release in battle, but no, it wasn't to be.  Edrick returned to his quiet and nervous self.  Perhaps it was just the way it went down, thought Seville to himself, always wanting the best for Edrick.  I wouldn't want to fight one imp either!

            But eventually the milling ceased and they returned to their positions around the fire, a secret message interlocking between them, telling them it was time to go.  The silence of packing was depressing for Seville.  He'd been so content with the way it was going; he couldn't let that slip away.

            "Well, I guess that explains what you were hearing in the forest," he said distantly with a weak grin on his face.

            "No, it doesn't." responded Gipson, "I know what an imp sounds like, this was something else."

            The motion of the crew halted once again.

            "Then what…"

            "Human," said Gipson darkly.  "We're being followed.  Nothing to do but wait'em out.  Keep packing, it's time to go."

            They couldn't speak for awhile after this.  Glances were passed around, confused and worried, but nothing substantial.  Once all were packed, Gipson pressed out the fire and they started marching again; the day was still young.

********************

            "Okay, so what do we know?" asked Seville, bringing a head to currently dawdling conversation.

            "About what?" Sylum returned.  They'd been on the road for another few hours, the afternoon sun now hanging heavy in the air and making them sweat.  They'd drawn in closer to the trees where they could procure some shade, but by Gipson's suggestion they never traveled within the forests themselves, as most monsters made their homes there.

            "About her.  About anything that'll help us find the princess, destiny or no.  I love ya, Professor, but I'd feel better if I knew where we were going."

            "I'll have to agree with the rogue on that one there," said Gipson, who'd developed a habit of scanning the brush at regular intervals.  Edrick however was still distant and had spent most of the trip picking oblong rocks up from the dirt and chucking them out into the grass fields, seeing if they'd skip.  It works better over water, but it doesn't really matter in the face of endless walking.  Edrick's face had reddened a good bit over the day; his pale skin wasn't used to such sun.  He went on chucking his rocks.

            "Well, we know she was kidnapped, because the kidnapper left a note.  No name, obviously, and no apparent motive.  In the two weeks since the abduction nothing new has come up, no ransom demands or anything like that.  Nobody in the king's court has made leave lately, so it doesn't seem to be an inside job."

            "What we know, professor, not what we don't know."

            "Okay, we know that as the princess she's the most beautiful maiden in the land, so it's possible she was just abducted by a creep.  We know that her and her father had a lot of political differences, which could have a part to play in his less than stellar attempts at rescuing her.  And, assuming that she's still on the continent, there are only so many places she could be.  If it'll make you all feel better we'll stop at the next town and ask some questions, perhaps our reputation might have already preceded us."

"Perhaps the note was forged and she's just run away," added Seville with a smirk.

            "…Perhaps.  But if the king got that impression I imagine he'd react differently.  If we're right, and I think we are, he's always seen this whole ordeal as a publicity stunt, but if the princess is unrecoverable, then the publicity will be bad publicity, and that's not what King Eliv wants.  No, somehow he is sure that the note is genuine, so we'll have to go off that."

            Seville and Gipson crowed around doctor Sylum as he spoke authoritatively.  Edrick stayed to himself and his rock skipping game.  Sylum continued:

            "My conjecture is that some as yet unknown party is trying to put political pressure on the king.  But it's too early to come out with anything solid.  Eliv is slow and deliberative, so this third party will wait as long as it takes until the king loses his cool.  Already Eliv has become increasingly rash, but the third party wants more, wants a potential collapse no doubt."

            "So who's the third party?" asked Gipson, taking Seville's place as the rogue went over to slap Edrick on the head and then dodge the retaliatory strike.  

            "Well, if we're lucky, the third party is somebody from Corneria, a farmer or miner who's fallen on bad times and feels like lashing out.  At least there we can establish a motive.  But what is more likely, I'm afraid, is that it's no one.  Just some guy who's decided to do something crazy and seek political gain while he's at it.  Corneria could be on its way to great change, good or bad."

            "Unless of course we stop it," affirmed Gipson.

            "Which we will," said Sylum with an appreciative glance.

            The brief moment of play had come and gone, and Edrick returned to skimming the rocks into the high grass.  They already developed a habit of spacing their dialogue, not wanting to use it all up so soon, so they were quiet for now, most of them thinking about the dull burn on the soles of their feet, Gipson thinking about the brush at the rim of the forest.  The rhythmic sounds of Edrick's stones thumping in the distance became a comfortable binder.  There was no need to speak as long as _something_ was happening.  Still, it was quite welcome when a rogue stone lanced into the high grass and sent back a loud metallic thud.

            Before the others had even interpreted the noise Gipson had pulled one of his long swords and dashed at the grass, impressively swift under such heavy capacity.  With a lunge he entered the green stalks and disappeared behind their curtain, and then all the others could hear was his movement, armor jangling, the displacement of vegetation.  Next came two violent swoops of his sword sending feathery blades of grass up into the air.  And then finally shouting, indistinct and angry.  When Gipson emerged he was holding a man firmly from the collar of his shirt, and when he was open enough, Gipson released the man with a shove to the ground.

            "Why do you trail us?" Gipson shouted, towering over the man who pressed himself in random directions upon his forearms.  Even without Gipson to compare with, this man on the ground would be small, his features thin and untrained.

            "Now hold on a minute! Hold on a minute!" said the man as he tried to stand, but Gipson returned him to the floor with a shove of his boot.

            "Answer first!" yelled Gipson, making sure the man could see the tip of his sword in his limited vision.

            The man pressed himself back a little, trying to increase the gap, "Come on, now, I mean you no harm!"  His voice was more deep than his frame suggested, punctuated with expressive sincerity.

            "Then why do you trail us?" asked Gipson once more, circling around and giving a nod to the rest party that things were under control.  "Speak and I'll let you be."

            "Because it's my job!" said the man before thrusting a defiant look into Gipson's solid face, and then he pushed himself up and brushed off his clothes.  He wore a light blue t-shirt and black slacks that held a little too low on his ankles.  To his belt were attached a few wooden dowels and what appeared to be graphite pencils.  When standing he was not so short as he looked on the ground, his hair peppery though his face his young.  He had a snooty upturned nose and his cheeks appeared to blush out wider than the rest of his head, they were rosy pink.  In fact, all put together he was quite odd looking.

            "What job is that?" interrogated Gipson with controlled tempo, "Assassin?"

            "Do I look like an assassin?" asked the man smartly, and as if going completely about his business, he reached into his pocket and removed a crumpled up loose-wicker hat that, with some fluffing, stood like a single tall steeple over his head.  The brim was wide and put a shadow on his face.  Gipson seemed to take this as a personal insult.

            "You look enough like one to me!" and Gipson moved closer with his sword, raising it to threaten.

            "Hold on a minute!" the man cried.  Gipson ever approaching, the man jumped back with a single hop and made of precise motion with his arms, which instantly flung from them a small orb of fire that shot into the ground with a pop and sent dust clouds into the air.  Gipson stopped moving.

            "… Black mage," the knight said, indicating the direction towards his partners with a quick glance.  He still held his sword readied, but was now more cautious.  If there's one thing a monster hunter hates to deal with, it's a black mage.  

            "Now just hold on a minute!  I'm not here to kill anybody!" said the man, his two hands raised forward in a warding formation.  Standing off to the side, a spectator to the showdown, what Seville was noticing was how this man had a particularly short way of connecting his words, like an auctioneer's voice.

            "Then for what?" demanded Gipson, taking a few strong steps forward, to which the man turned to the others.

            "Whoa, now!  Are you all gonna pull this barbarian off me or what?"

            "Master Gipson, give him a moment," said Sylum, establishing his duty.  The doctor came forward slightly as Gipson desisted.  "Now, what job is it you speak of?  And what's your name?"

            The man pointed at the large knight as he made a little distance and hugged the perimeter, "That's abominable behavior for a light warrior!"

            "Well, it seems you know who we are," continued Sylum coolly, "Who are you?  Answer or I'll let Master Gipson have his way."

            "Comminations from the diplomat as well!  What an atrabilious fate I portend for the world!" The man started pacing uncomfortably, but Gipson kept a stern presence.  "Yeah, two steps back, guy!"

            "Atrabilious?" offered Seville, fumbling over the word.  

            "Look it up, kid.  I've more onerous obligations than playing dictionary for…" But he was cut short by Sylum who pulled his sword strategically and held it just at the man's chest.

            "Answer my questions.  _Now!_"

            The man ran his eyes from top to bottom of Sylum's body and then back to top, sizing him up.  His misshapen faced showed a haughty sense of unconcern. 

            "Fine.  The name's Chuck, Chuck Domino." Seville wanted to laugh. "And I'm no assassin.  I'm a journalist, a columnist like the curmudgeon over there," said the man, pointing to Gipson who reared his head angrily.  "I work the Corneria Chronicle out of Jrist, statistics show that at least one of you should have heard of me."

            "Journalist?" Gipson had become extraordinarily defensive, "What is it you want with us?"         

            "Don't be so obtuse!  The scoop!  I was working festival detail down in Corneria when you guys showed up and did your little frippery.  Boss thought it'd be good stuff, so he moved some new guys to my beat and sent me after you.  A bit of prodigality on his part, I'll admit, but job's a job."

            It made them uneasy, fearful.  This little weasel of a man following them secretly and documenting everything.  Sylum had heard of Chuck Domino before, and like most successful people in his field, he had a knack for skewed points of view and slander.  The second they made a mistake it would be published and faith in them would drop.  Sylum cringed at such thoughts, already knowing full well that his 'Zen adventuring' would not be a popular idea to the public.  Why had he not expected this?  It seemed so clear it would happen and preventive measures should have been taken.  And yet, what if they didn't make any mistakes?  What if all went gloriously well and journalistic documentation sang their praises through the lands?  Think of the name it would give him.  Sylum the great!  But that was later, and this was now, and the others were not keen on it, you could tell from the scrunched anger in their eyes, the horrid gaze from trembling Edrick, or the downcast smirk of Seville.  But why did Gipson, a master of such things, so fear another journalist?  Sylum didn't have time to put it all through his mind.

            "So you like words, huh?" asked Sylum, rhetorically.  "How about this one?  _Reprobate._"

            "I've done nothing wrong!  If you'll remember it was ogre-boy over there that assaulted me!"

            "_Unscrupulous!_"

            "When and how, friend?  I'm just doing a job same as you."

            "How about, _avarice!_"

            "Just so you know I don't get paid very much, a pittance compared to my meritorious distinction within my vocation."

            "_Paparazzi!"_

            "Come on, now, that's a little asinine, don't ya think?"

            "Hey, I've got one!" interrupted Seville, a bright smile curling onto his face. "_Asshole!"_

            Chuck responded as foolhardy as ever, "Oh, now that's just not nice," and then he threw a palm forward, aiming at Gipson, and shot a fireball into the knight, who went soaring back and landed with a grinding crunch.  With amazing speed the man flicked his wrist by his belt and drew one of the wooded dowels and aimed again at Gipson.  There was a brilliant flash and within the wand came a foreign buzzing sound and he slotted it just as quickly back on his belt.  Seville had already torn free his daggers and was vaulting at the infuriating man, but Chuck simply shook his head with a rancorous grin, snapped his fingers, and was gone from sight.

********************

            A Cornerian dusk starts slow in the western sky with subtle rims of purple that curve indistinctly.  The shifting hues are gradual, so gradual in fact that a watching eye might not notice them.  The change would only register after a passage of time and rebooting of the brain.  Once the wavy purple fades the entire sky is lit by orange, followed by smaller patches of pink and red that hug towards the horizon, a gentle but deep blue filling in around it until taking it over.  And then the sky is calm, the turbulence passed.  And such was the sky as the light warriors decided the day had been long enough and made camp a very short distance from the forest line, as per Gipson's instructions.

            "It'll give us a place to hang the food, and the walk for firewood will be much shorter.  Yes, yes, I know monsters are more plentiful here, don't worry about it.  Gents, this is what I do," the knight had said to assure the others facing their first night in the wilderness.  From a weasely journalist to the most oddly behaved imp in all Corneria, it had been a weird day to start an adventure with.  But the group vibe had been strengthening as the time passed.  Their speech came naturally, without the slightest burden, and they shared laughs, even with Edrick.  They decided to watch out for Chuck Domino wherever he may be, but also accepted that there was little they could do about him.  He would be back, no doubt about that.  The nervous white mage, with great effort, healed Gipson of his burns, to which the knight gave Edrick a hardy slap on the back and a "Thanks, Bucko!"  Sylum then tried to present a case that Domino might not have been wholly bad, that a little publicity could be a good thing, but the others, and Gipson seemed to be speaking from experience, agreed that it was not.  "Let's do this one first," offered Seville, "Then we'll get some publicity."

            That comment had stifled conversation a slight while as it sunk in to each of them how long a task they had before them.  Not just saving a princess, though they had hardly looked beyond that point, but saving a world.  None of them had fully accepted that this was no one-night stand.  Light warriors are light warriors for life, and it could take that to do the job.  The _Lux Aeterna_ could not be treated as a triviality.  In truth, it still hadn't sunk, not as they sat around a fire and talked of the day's events with a sense of humor.  What a day, what a day!

            It was not completely nighttime yet, but the sun was below the horizon, and their skin reflected the powdery blue of shadows wherever it was not orange with flame.  Prickles of stars had formed along the eastern ridge, the peak of twilight.  Sylum decided another toast was in order and brought forth another of the soft drinks, this one called _Mountain Dew_.  They generally liked it, but Edrick would not have a second sip so Seville finished his for him.

            "And so what do your instincts tell you, Master Gipson, about the first day that is?" asked doctor Sylum.  He'd removed his hat and cloak and lunged lazily on one of the logs they'd moved over, the flicker of fire dancing on the lenses of his glasses.  "I figure you should be our chief adventure correspondent."

            "A good day, doctor.  A very good day, I think.  Of course, only our mage has seen any action, but if the road continues working as it always has in my long years, we can expect plenty of trial in the near future."  Gipson shrugged his voice a little, showing an age that he often hid, but the others didn't seem to notice.  

            "Long years, sir?  Why, I wouldn't place you ten over my own," responded Sylum.  Darrin Sylum was thirty-five years old, not the least ready to give in to bad backs and ulcers.  The way he pressed his thin brown hair down in a mesh gave both the impression of care and absent-mindedness.  It was short and seemed to jut into thatch patterns halfway down his forehead, like he had tried to do something with it and failed miserably.  If you liked glasses he wasn't too shabby to look at either, confined in the scholarly sense of naivety; so strong at some things and so weak at others.  Perhaps it was just the young company he kept, students like Seville, but he wasn't one to act his age.  He was fairly new to Corneria, and his workshops on political liberalism and ethics had almost made him feared.  The old men called him a "hot shot", but in the worst way possible.  

            "Wouldn't you now?" answered back Gipson vaguely.  Ten years, Gipson thought to himself, that would put him at forty something.  _Ha!_

            "I would, I would.  In fact, it is odd to me that the light warriors should span such an age difference.  Then again, legends, they always make things more romantic than they should."

            "What's that, Dr. Sylum?" asked Edrick Valance, rubbing his eyes tiredly and realizing that Seville was doing the same.

            "Oh, well, the legend states that four warriors will come bearing the orbs of light, each to one elemental force of nature.  That's such a simplistic way of saying it when you think about it.  By meaning, we didn't really come in riding white horses and bearing magical orbs.  We stumbled into everything at the last minute, not even twenty-four hours ago yet.  It felt like a big coincidence to me."

            "You're saying…" continued Edrick.

            "Nothing really, just thoughts.  Tired thoughts."

            "I know what you mean," added Seville, stretching his arms up above his head and yawning, "I think it's been long enough for me.  I didn't have a very good night last night in the first place."  Seville stood up and this time stretched his legs.  He unclasped his vest and set it to the side and was just kicking out his bedroll when the quiet serenity of the four was startled by a resounding snap.  Next came the crisp _shhhink_ of Gipson's sword pulling from its sheath, and the knight turned briskly and raced his eyes along the nearest brush.  His eyes pointed so quickly to different things it seemed almost to be connecting dots, and then Gipson turned to the other four.

            "Ambush!" he said, and the creatures came barreling out of the woods.

            Before Seville could distinguish the images he tucked his head back as an arrow grazed by and thudded into the dirt behind, sticking up like a spike.  

            "Down!" yelled Gipson and he pushed the rogue and priest over with his palms.  Soaring arrows collided with the soft dirt all around, most of them snapping on impact and fumbling into slivery piles.  Seville could hear the pouncing of swift feet on the ground, rapidly growing near.  Dodging the high-pitched streams of another barrage, Seville scurried backwards on hands and knees, saw that Gipson was charging off, and stood to do the same.  An arrow just then pierced into the fire and shot up a spit of ash of sparks, but Seville brushed this away from his eyes and found his daggers.  When he saw the creatures he almost choked, overcome with astonishment and shock.

            Over a score of forest imps, armed with daggers and short bows, had charged into the field, but not alone.  The first of them had saddled large wolves and were galloping them skillfully, vicious gleams in their beady eyes.  The wolf-riders had already circled a containment perimeter and the foot soldiers were rushing in just behind.  Standing back were the archers, but they were not as skilled.  Seville twisted the handles of his blades in his hands, a brief moment of confused repose, and then he began running towards the line, where Gipson was already slashing at the tiny creatures.

            Sylum had taken longer to react but had finally found his short sword and was dancing from side to side, swinging the sword at what was usually nothing and taking over- exaggerated lengths to dodge the flailing arrows.  Edrick pushed the firewood stack out of the way, as the rogue arrow had sent the fire scuttling along the path in a trickle, and then he found his mace and reared it around him, hoping the riders and footman would forget he was there.  The rushing noises of feet and blades punched at him on all sides, and he spun until he was dizzy from it.

            Then came two strong whaps, like a thick whip going off, and they all turned to find the noise.  Even Gipson did not respond fast enough as the weighted net struck his chest and wrapped in around him.  Sylum also was not prepared and was gunned down by the thick fiber net fitted on all sides with heavy grapes like a bolo.  The spacing of the holes was wide and as the two captured men struggled they found themselves only further entwined.  Sylum called:

            "Quick, Seville, the netting!" but Seville was busy strafing from the rusty daggers of four imps.  Actually Gipson had already sent several of the goblins sailing through the air, sometimes in half-parts, and had broken the archer line, but the monsters were tenacious, snarling their gruff language in spurts.  Over the grumbles of the imps and growls of the circling wolves, Seville could hear the struggle of the two captured men and Edrick shouting something frantically and depressing the nozzle of his mace.  One of the imps thrust forward, the curved front of his dagger pressed out, and Seville barely sided the beast and made a flick of his wrist and the imp fell to the ground and did not get up.  

            "Seville!" Sylum called again as two of the wolf-riders rode into him and the wolves were snapping their fierce jaws at the tendons in his ankles.  He kicked at them like a dying man on his last fight, but they seemed unaffected.  Seville had turned to respond to Sylum, but the imps took the opportunity and circled around to flank.  They assaulted together and Seville again lucked out with a quick side jump and then a roll back around the fire.  The rogue charged the two wolf-riders working over the doctor, punctuating it with a bestial cry.  He pounced one of them with a fury and sent the rider smacking into the grass.  When Seville pulled his hand close he could feel the warm blood of the wolf saturating it down to the wrist.  The downed rider stood with an angry limp and hobbled forward with his dagger while the other wolf-rider rounded and snapped.  Seville aimed one dagger at each of them, jousting them forward and back repetitively to keep the enemies at bay.  The wolf readied on its haunches, and the standing imp shouted goblinoid obscenities at Seville, but they came out as squeaky titters.  A sudden loud whap from behind caused Seville foolishly to turn, and he saw Edrick downed by a heavy net just before the wolf jumped and raked at his back.  

            A well-placed elbow pressed the wolf off and he expertly lifted a dagger from the dirt and brought it around with a wide slice.  As he met the one-eighty mark the knife tore into the wolf's muzzle and it hopped backwards with a pained whimper, unseating the angry rider.  The wolf turned and darted to the trees, and Seville managed to find his feet and survey the field.  Gipson had finally reached one of his knives and was scraping at the rope, but the progress was infinitesimal.  Sylum was doing his best to unlatch the odd twists and turns of the weights behind his back but could hardly reach them, and Edrick was content just to keep the single imp bothering him at bay with his mace.  Ten imps remained, all brandishing daggers and standing on the ground.  Each of the wolf-riders had either dismounted or been fought off.  

            "Come and get some!" yelled Seville and they turned to focus on him, closing forward in a menacing semi-circle.  They spoke to each other in that horrid goblin language, plotting and preparing.  The imps fanned out and tried to complete the circle, but Seville dashed to one side and took two preemptive stabs at the closest imp, who ducked and scuttled away, but at least the circle was not complete. It was a standstill, ten imps facing the single Seville, though he was twice their height.  They closed in, maintaining this time their line, and Seville reciprocally backed away, holding the two daggers like traffic wands.  Then suddenly an object came under his foot and he lifted before he crushed it.  Looking down he saw one of the short bows, conveniently discarded along with a stocked quiver.  He scooped both the bow and an arrow up precisely, aimed, and fired.

            The imps screamed out in violent chatters when they turned inwards and saw one of the center imps, arrow sticking a foot out of his forehead fall back with a thump.  As they wasted disorient time Seville pulled up another arrow, aimed, and fired.  A swoop of wind and then it struck an imp in the chest and it went pelting back.  Now the imps unified their anger and charged after Seville, who accidentally dropped the bow and then pulled out his daggers once more.

            They were upon him, like an army of children that would hack at his shins, but he disengaged that imagery from his mind quickly and he deftly parried two jabs and sent those two imps back with bloody gashes along their chests.  The imps moved swiftly and flanked on all sides then, six of them remaining, and they swung their daggers bravely at the man, but Seville felt the adrenaline him take him away from it, and place him in a zone where all was perfection.  Operating differently against each monster he blocked strike after strike and kicked his way through the group, freeing his sides.  Then Seville advanced and slashed one of the imps down, shielding his eyes from the blood spurt.  The others stepped back as it happened and darted their small eyes fearfully.  They tried to respond with their daggers but Seville had taken over, and he hopped over the blades smashed into two of them which flew back and when standing again ran off to the trees.  

            And then three remained, the distance between them and Seville no more than six feet, but the imps did not approach.  They shared concerned glances between themselves, and Seville kept his daggers moving through the air in figure-eight swashes so as to keep them on edge.  After the brief uncomfortable interlude, the three imps raised their daggers, dropped them, ran into the forest, and the battle was done.

            Still surging with heat, Seville went to each of his partners with a sprint and cut them free of the nets.  All around were the bodies of imps, so many in so short a time.  Though quite dark now, the satin stains of blood on the ground shone menacingly in the frail light of the fire.  Seville himself had a pain in his back, probably light bleeding, but since he couldn't be cured it wouldn't do to explain.  There was a quick pulse of anger in him, bitterness that he had not been more careful in such a fragile condition, but it passed with a heartbeat.  What time was this to get down on himself?

            "Don't worry about it, you say?" scoffed Edrick to Gipson, exasperated.  It was the first time he had raised his voice to anyone, but Gipson did not take it seriously.

            "Oh, come on, there's no time for that now.  The battle is ours, or more, _his!_  Seville!"

            "Yes?" responded Seville, still sick with adrenaline and feeling antsy, as if he should be doing something.  

            "Well, that was incredible.  Why didn't you tell me you had such skill with the dagger?  This is the kind of thing a warrior likes to know."

            "You never asked, big guy!" Seville answered with a laugh and an appreciative smile.

            "I commend you as well, Seville." Dr. Sylum added.  "After a performance like that, one can hardly doubt the light warrior in you.  Really, marvelous.  Wonderful!  Now, Edrick, a little help."

            Edrick reluctantly went to the professor and healed the wounds on his ankle.  That's two for the day, Seville thought, not bad at all, Eddie.

            "Wait now, before it's all good job and good night, what exactly happened to imps being the most pathetic creatures in the forest?  Seemed pretty resourceful to me!" said Edrick, belatedly continuing his rant.  

            "They were a clever bunch, I'll give it to'em.  We should probably move the camp a little father from the tree line so we don't get sniped in the night.  Obviously we'll have to have watches now.  I'll go first, followed by Dr. Sylum, and then you, Edrick.  We'll let Seville rest.  His last night was bad, no reason to continue the trend."

            Seville nodded happily at this but he knew that it was false.  Gipson wanted Seville to sleep because of the ghost rot.  Sylum had provided a perfectly mild solution of morphine to fight the pain without dementia, but he really knew nothing else.  The rot would cause so many problems in the future, but he managed to press this out of his mind as well.

            They shuttled the camp farther out into the field, cleaned down their equipment, and settled in to rest.  Seville went to his bed first, having planned for that before the battle and especially now he felt sluggish, the adrenaline in him thinning and leaving him to feel as if he was floating.  The thick gropes of fatigue overcame his strongly, and he collapsed into his bedroll and seemed to sink forever into the ground.  The other three had decided to stay up and talk by the fire a moment longer, and because of this Seville fought sleep as long he could.  After they thought he had gone, the three talked highly of Seville, his industriousness in battle and overall value to the team.  It had only been a day but they seemed to feel that they were centering around him.  Something about Seville made all this more important.  

            Seville's heart swelled so fully that it almost hurt, and for the first time in a very long time, he fell asleep happy.             


	6. Portent

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 6 ~ Portent

            Seville was awakened by soft voices that seemed to heave like waves up and down.  Stirring uncomfortably he felt his eyelids and pressed the film away, realizing it was still night and that he must not have dozed long, for the others were still talking.  What little sleep he'd had, however, left him rested so he decided to join the others.  After standing he equipped his leather vest quickly and made sure to have his daggers ready, then he picked up his empty water canteen and headed to the fire, which sometime in his nap the others had decided to move nearer the forest, almost fifty yards away in fact.  No wonder the talking had been so quiet, thought Seville.

            The distant walk to the campfire made him feel detached, a single entity pressed against a vast sea of night with only a single beacon to approach, and that beacon feeling miles away.  Though late summer, already the trees were loosing their leaves because hundreds of leaves were soaring past, scurrying along the ground like frightened roaches.  The wind had certainly picked up this night.  The ground had been empty of the leaves before; Seville wondered how long he had been sleeping.

            When Seville approached the campfire he found the others adorned with whatever supplies they he brought.  Dr. Sylum wore his leather plate with the short sword sheathed on his belt, Edrick was dressed in his robes and had his pack to his side, closed and readied, and Herrick Gipson donned his entire armor suit, lacking only the helmet, complete with each of his weapons.  Almost like the effect of a mood stone, Gipson's armor shone black in the deep nighttime as opposed to red.  Sided next to each of the sitting light warriors was a water canteen.

            Leaves fluttering by on invisible strings or air, Seville sat and joined them.  Along with moving the fire they had built it bigger, almost four feet in diameter and at times the flames licked so high into the night that Seville could not see Edrick sitting across from him.

            They talked of Chuck Domino, but it seemed Sylum had won them over while Seville slept, because they were considering strategies to deal with Domino, not violently, but cooperatively, negotiating the possibility of complete coverage, interviews, and several other exclusive privileges.  Gipson especially had softened his mood towards the journalist, and made friendly jokes at the absent man's expense while seeming pleased at the ideas.  Gipson said that, thinking it over, it was a wonderful idea to have a second-hand chronologist for this kind of thing.  Though he had developed a following, the public knew nothing of the other three and wouldn't necessarily trust their reports, so Domino could serve as a support man.  The whole thing had seemed wary at first, but he said it dawned on him that this was no trivial adventure, but the initial trial of the light warriors, and that kind of thing needs unbiased interpretation.  Sylum had mentioned a few things earlier in the day about Domino not being the most unbiased of reporters, but he did not realize that argument at this moment and let the knight say his piece in Sylum's favor.  Then Sylum asked to see all the orbs of light, and Gipson and Edrick responded quickly, tossing them over.  It took Seville a moment longer but he still delivered.  Sylum required both hands to hold them, and he held them forward in the cupped palms and spoke a long rambling soliloquy about their importance.  Edrick commented on what a fine painting the stance would have made, and the others agreed.  As Sylum handed back the orbs Seville noticed that Gipson's, though still absent of the dark gray gas that filled the others', pulsed with a dull purple bead in the center, a throbbing singularity of shear regal light.  The color called to him like the wailing song of an angel, but the other three took no notice of it, and Gipson stuffed the orb back in the pack leaning on the log seat.

Crystalline snaps came from the fire, and they continued to talk, about everything from the days to come, to the Princess, to the festival.  It was all rambling and at times Seville realized he couldn't the least remember what had been said and would try again to stay on top of the conversation, but it flowed from one topic to the next, and without goal at all, so often if sounded like the three were mumbling indistinct truisms with no substance at all.  Seville felt as if their collective drive for conversation had slackened and that everyone should just get some sleep, but the others were content on the moment, oddly.  Since Sylum and Edrick had not retired, Seville knew that he had not slept but for minutes, so it did seem slightly disconcerting that they would have already accomplished what they had, and so quietly, but Seville didn't think on it much, and tried to stay in the wavering conversation.

A little time passed like this, leaves wisping, fire crackling, and the three men before Seville shifting from topic to topic.  Above him the few clouds felt stationary and the stars dimmed.  A void behind him and a grand forest before him, Seville felt as if in a box, but for once this didn't grant him comfort, but just oddity, misunderstanding, disorientation.  Suddenly Sylum spoke up and requested that Gipson fill their water canteens for the next day, better now than in the morning.  Gipson obliged, shifted his tar-black armor, and took up each of them, including Seville's, now glad he had decided to bring it, and then he turned and headed into the fields off the direction they had come the day prior.  Seville didn't remember a river or pond in that direction but Gipson really was the better adventurer, so he must know what he is doing.  The knight seemed to dissipate into darkness as he walked away, only not into the darkness of shadow but into his own darkness.  Certainly he had faded from sight long before he should have.  Seville could still see the tress at that distance.  

Then, Sylum said that nature was calling and asked if Edrick was coming, to which the priest said yes and stood to follow.  The two men disappeared into the thickness of the trees and Seville was left sitting alone at the large fire.  Seville realized that for such wind to be passing, for the leaves to be moving by so rapidly, that the trees should have been swaying much more, should have been making more noise.  In fact, beyond the flicks and sizzles of the campfire, the air was silent.  Not a single scratch of branch on branch or the call of a single night-bird.  Seville could not think about that though, because whenever he tried his right arm suddenly began to sting.  

            When he tore back his shirt sleeve to reveal the accursed rot, he found that the bruise had shifted from black to purple, or rather the outlining bruise had remained black but the veins were a sharp purple color, dancing down his arm just as the blood might flow.  Even as he looked at it the intensity seemed to build, the light greater and greater, and yet not reflecting on his shirt or the ground.  The purple vibrancy shimmering now from his underarm was not reflected by anything, but only existed for itself.  And then the lines of color did not follow his veins but moved into new jagged paths, and then moved from those, and then again.  The lines were swaying upon his arm, and it was so miraculous a sight that he hardly noticed how the pain was growing.  Seville was aware of nothing else.  All his vision zoned in on the dancing lights upon his arm.

            The lines took shape, but did not return to the shape of his veins, but instead crawled into a single line running down the center of his underarm and sided by two crests on his palms that connected at angles.  An arrow.  Following its path Seville looked up into the ling of trees and was suddenly overcome with a burning drive.  He stood and launched into the brush, not caring that the bushes were spiked and they tore at his face.

            Hundreds of trees must have grown while he was napping as the forest was impossibly dense, thickening to the point that each of his frantic steps was aimed at dodging another tree trunk.  And still his progress was rapid; he maintained still almost the speed of a run but wasn't sure where he was running.  After some time he began to hear the voices of Sylum and Edrick, shouting.  Seville wanted to reach them, felt a dire urgency to save them, and yet he felt that hope sinking in his stomach so that it weighted him down.  His legs were sore already, his right arm thumping, and still he could not find the yelling men.  Next came the sounds of metal clanging.  Battle.

            When Seville finally burst into a small clearing where all around were trees that almost seemed to have faces, peering in with angry sneers, the sounds of metal had stopped and before him he saw Dr. Sylum bent over the body of Edrick Valance.  As Seville approached, very afraid, Sylum raised his sword out of the slain Edrick and began to wipe it down on his cloak.  No, not his sword, but one of Gipson's.  The Werebane.  Seville even now took time to note how the Edrick's blood matched perfectly with the cloak's hue, and so no stain would show.  Sylum then turned to face Seville, who had stopped short and could not think of how to act.  Sylum came closer, holding the blade low to his side, but still tensed and prepared.  When he finally came so close to Seville that a single strike could have sent the rogue to the ground forever, Sylum stood still and let the leaves run past, swirling even between them in that little space.  Seville held his mouth ajar but no sound came out.  His eyes raced between the cold glimmer of Sylum's and to the corpse of Edrick lying on the ground behind.  Then Sylum slotted his sword in its sheath and pulled from behind his robe two glass bottles filled with a dark brown liquid.  A drink then, said Sylum, and he handed one of the bottles to Seville, who could find nothing else to do but to open the bottle and start drinking.  It tasted sweet and quenched a thousand years' thirst.  His entire body felt cool as it ran through him, thrilling him.  The pain in his right arm swept away with a single gulp, and the torrents of wondrous love gushed through his body, with such powerful strokes it seemed he might burst.  It made him laugh, a giddy girlish laugh.  They stood and finished the bottles completely, not leaving a single drop at the bottom of the glass.  And then Sylum looked up at Seville with an unwavering severity.  His brown eyes seemed almost to reflect the red of a distant fire, and they burned intently.  Seville felt like he was falling into a terrible vortex, the sounds of beating kettledrums and wailing strings suffocating him.

            So is Gipson back with the water yet, Sylum asked, and he smirked.

            Seville was awakened by nearby voices, and instantly looked up to see the three light warriors sitting just near him upon logs and talking over a normal campfire.  They hadn't moved, and judging by things he'd been sleeping only minutes.  But he was saturated with sweat, and in the night air each drop felt like a spike reaching deep into him.  He couldn't stand the humid stickiness of his bedroll so he stood, stretched, and returned to the campfire, at least until the others decided to sleep as well.  He tried his best to smile, but could not shake a terrible unsettled feeling in his gut.  What really had woken him suddenly?  For some reason when Dr. Sylum delivered his obnoxious smile and greeted Seville brightly, Seville became cold throughout.  He could only nod and then sit down on his log.  Sylum tried to talk to him but Seville remained uncomfortably distant.  It suddenly felt like a wall of resistant energy had drawn between them, cold and untrusting.


	7. The Love Below Pt 1

Author's Notes

This is part one of a reflective tribute to everyone's favorite walking tank: Herrik Gipson.  It was only supposed to be one chapter long, but as the chapter got longer and longer (and since I'm releasing this in serial format), I decided to split it into two parts.  It gives me more updates and shorter chapters this way.  I know, I know, spending two chapters straight on building the depth of a single character would seem wasteful, but I work on everybody here, and the story is forwarded (a little).  Dialogue's a little weak at the end, I know, but when it gets that way a good thing for me to do is close the chapter up and start anew.    

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 7 ~ The Love Below Pt. One

            Headmistress Glump was quite possibly, no, _definitely,_ the fattest woman in the entire world.  Unable to press her folds into any form of constricted clothing, she wore tailor maid dresses of astonishingly hideous floral décor, though, in a pinch, they would make fine sails.  Her normal movement was that of a grave saunter, as if in perpetual practice for a funeral march.  Her eyes were downcast anyways, the bulging folds from the brow above demanded it.  Not that she couldn't run, mind you, just that her run was like an avalanching boulder, ending in nothing but crashes and death.  At the waist she circumferenced at least ten feet, though you'd be hard pressed to define where her waist ended and the rest of the fat began.  Add onto that a height no greater than five and a half, a pumpkin of a head from anything to size or shape, bread-dough arms slathered with veins crying for release, and feet long and porcine like gluttonous ferrets and you have Headmistress Glump.

            In the fall semester, her first year of teaching grade school, no less than five minutes of each day were lost to her agonizing struggle with the door frame.  Through soft moans she pressed against the portal, blubbery folds ridging over the frame so that it disappeared, and for that brief terrible moment her and the frame were one, a duality of pressures, inward and outward, struggle and release.  By November the children spoke and giggled about the scuttle impressions coursed over the inner wooden slats.  For reasons beyond the comprehension of the children, the faculty heads decided to keep Glump on, so over the winter break a work order was signed and the door was widened to accommodate.  Three children could enter the room at once shoulder to shoulder and not even suck in their chests.

            And she was old too, but this was hard to surmise because her body literally could not afford wrinkles, there was no space within for the indentions.  But her badly grayed hair, hanging in multiple pockets like noodles tipped from a bowl was one clue, along with her voice, high and creaky.  The dimpled oldness of her face was hidden under millimeter thick make-up anyways, a result no doubt of her never removing a previous coat.  Boysenberry blue for the eye lids, syrupy black for the lashes, strawberry red for the lips, and cream white for everything else, her face was a veritable sundae.  When she spoke, and she did in great length, her acorn pouch cheeks jiggled like a Buddhist luck-maker; it was always something to watch when you couldn't follow the rant about how kids these days were goin' straight down in the proverbial hand basket, and there wasn't a thing to do about it so shut up and learn your multiplication tables.  But they'd learned them already.  Nine times seven was sixty-three last month, gee, it's still sixty-three this month.  They breezed through the syllabus like Glump breezed through a doorway.

            Therefore, it was a breath of fresh sardonic air when the new kid arrived in the early spring.  After all, one could only hear the Glump chant (_lumpy glumpy, short and stumpy, bag of donuts, still she's grumpy)_ so many times before it got old, not that the leader of the class clown brigade, Thadwick, noticed this.  But a new kid meant a new target to which all the children were welcome.  It started the very first day, about a month into spring term.

            "Children," wheezed Headmistress Grump, "we've got a new student in class today so I want everybody to help make her feel…"

            "I'm a boy!" said the new kid.

            "Oh, of course, dear.  Help _him_ feel welcome."  Not a good start at all.  The boy's earliest memories were that of childish snickers as he walked to what he thought

 was the nearest empty seat, sat and realized it was broken, stood, and then found one towards the back; cruel eyes upon him all the way.  His first day of class not but moments passed and already he felt as if in a pit of rattlesnakes, the threatening rattles replaced with jokes.  The tall, nasally boy he later knew as Thadwick, sneered and led a rally of laughs.  And at what?  The little boy, so confused, lost.

            Most aggravating to him, and that which he grumbled about as he sat in the back and ignored the lesson on multiplying the terrible sevens, was that he did look like a girl, that this oafish beast ahead the class was not the first to make the mistake.  Rather it was a stigma, plaguing him.  How else would you expect a boy with brilliant red hair hanging down so that it framed his rosy cheeks to look?  And his clothes too were bright red, his pale face sticking out like a fog light.

            Early on, a small black-haired boy, probably one of Thadwick's goons, held up a picture he'd been working on diligently since the new kid's arrival, sweeping clockwise around the room and ending with the boy.  The picture was cruelly accurate, and under read the caption: _Santa called, he wants his clothes back._

            "Time for lunch, children!"  It couldn't have come early enough, but when the black-haired boy made sure to deliver the picture personally to the new kid's desk, the new kid realized that it didn't really matter.

            _(Read'em and weep, gents, deuces and jacks…)_

            He sat alone in the cafeteria and mulled over his five wood-like chicken nuggets, grainy mashed potatoes, and half-melted Jell-O cup.  He kept his eyes away from the long table where Thadwick and goons sat, but he heard all the laughing, sharp and distinct as if it was aimed at him, which it probably was.  Twice he felt the quick slap of a nugget on the back of his head, but he didn't respond.  That would only make it worse, right?

            "How did I get here?" the boy asked himself.  His head hurt.

            _(You cheatin' son of a submariner…)_

            Recess wasn't looking much better, so the new kid stuck to the far end of the grounds, away from the other children.  He spent the slowly passing time staring up into the sky, vainly thinking that if he couldn't see them, they couldn't see him.  He heard them start laughing again.  It was about him, he knew it.  No stupid little third grader was that funny on his own.  Looking up for so long made him dizzy, so he crouched down and started pressing the gravel around with his hands.  What a way to spend a first day at school, he thought.  He wanted to go home, but realized he didn't know where that was.  His head hurt a lot.

            The reaping motion of his hands halted, but he stayed crouched, silent and still like a gargoyle atop a cathedral buttress.

            _(Yeah…yeah…just deal it again.  Hey man, you with us…)_

            Basking in that tranquil stance the thumping in his head faded slightly, so he tried to maintain it best he could, even slowing his breathing to long silent wisps.  He managed to forget everything around him, leaving just him and his small plot of gravel, feeling only the lazy, soothing breeze upon him.  But in such motionless sentry he could not avoid the vague mysteries in the back of his mind, a plot of black clouds, a blanket over the past.  The boy remembered nothing.  Not his family or home, or from where he came even.  For only seven days now had he been _aware_, as he thought of it in his mind.  Before that, nothing at all.  So lost in his mind he became just then, that at first, and not until they were upon him, did he hear the voluminous, wailing screams.

            Before he recognized any sensations he was pulling his face out of the gravel and cupping the back of this head tenderly, and his eyes saw along the ground's horizon several legs running past him.  A slap to the back of the head was some warning.  He heard several children now screaming, and another sound, deeper and ferocious, but a scream of some sort.  Dazed from his falling collision, he bumped himself up and tried to look around, but again without notice he was pushed one way and then another, small clamoring hands pressing him forward and he walked with them with little time to question, they lead wherever he was supposed to go.

            Another tyrannical growl came from behind him somewhere, even louder this time, a bellowing sound, a roar.  Defiant against the hands pushing him away he spun back, and saw for himself the creature amidst the astonished cries of the children.

            "A T-Rex, a T-Rex!!!" they were calling.

            The boy screamed instantly as well, but stopped it short and continued to stare, to the point that others were almost pulling him.  The giant reptilian beast bounded forward on two thick legs ending in menacing claws.  From top to bottom it ran with dimply blue-green scales, and its eyes shone off its head like diminutive yellow beacons.  Its shattering roars came out through a maw of gigantic brown teeth that shut in on each other like a cage.  As it ran it lashed its tail to each side, accompanied by the mighty swoosh of the wind.  Recoiling back, and caught off by the other children trying to pull him away, the new kid lost his footing on a random jut of rock and fell to his back.  

           The beast noticed and looked as if it would charge, but after a single lunging step it reared back and perked upwards, twisting its head around.  The boy winced in confusion, and the other children continued to pull at his shoulders, but he angrily shook them away.  They yelled at him, turned, and ran.  The T-Rex completely turned then and left his tail to the boy.  He sat there a moment and watched the monster duck its head and bobble like a chicken away from him, moving slowly.  He took no notice of the other children having left him, only the view before him.  The giant beast finally subsiding its growls, he suddenly knew what had attracted it away.  

            _(Come on, man, you gotta pay attention…how many you want…)_

            A high-pitched squealing, a girlish cry, was ringing over the field, somewhere in front of the boy and also before the Rex.  The sound was obvious and terrifying, but before all things had come together for the boy, the beast hunkered low and charged forward.  The boy heard the metallic scrapes and cracking wood as the Rex launched its head through the playground, sending splintery logs and many of the long metal canisters that had formed the hideaway pipes soaring through the air.  Too lost in this sight, the boy still did not move, and the Rex circled around and sent another chunk of the playground away.  The beast ran in circles, mulling its snout through the debris, searching for its food, but seemed to find nothing.  It worked slowly, but powerfully.  

            The boy's head suddenly hurt incredibly, the sharp glimmers of white that pierced the blank darkness of his mind physically pained him.  Something was coming to him, something natural, though it hurt to try to realize it.  Once more without notice his hands were searching the ground, combing quickly through the gravel and dirt, doing their own searching.  He wanted to do something, wanted it so bad, but feared it.  Was this right?  Finding nothing more suitable than a palm-sized stone, he stood and charged forward at the Rex.

            _(That's three times now…do you wanna play or not, buddy…)_

            The T-Rex was taking a fresh chew into a still-planted metal canister as the new kid finished his run onto the ground and halted instantly, finding that he had little to do offensively.  For the short while, the monster seemed to care little of him, so the boy followed the wailing cries that had led both adversaries to this point.  Hopping a mangled log, once part of a swing set, and cornering around a long grounded pipe, he came up to a short and wide dome structure where kids would hide and make the base for games like knights and bandits.  He peered in and saw a milk-pale Thadwick clenching against the side of the dome, trying his best to hide, but still screaming.  

            "_Shut up!" _whispered the boy at Thadwick, as emphatic as a whisper could be, but at first the frightened mound either didn't understand or didn't choose to obey.  He continued to shoot out the echoing, nasally screeches of fright, punctuated with breathy gasps.  So the new kid ducked into the dome, crouched over, and slapped Thadwick across the face.

            "_Shut up, I said!"_

            Thadwick was so shocked he actually did.  But in that very first instant of quiet they discerned how close the monster now was, so close they felt its hot breath jetting in from the unwelded seams of the metal dome.  To Thadwick it must have seemed like some masterful fury, but to the new kid, he was drawing a mental blank and operating on sheer kinetic energy.  The boy grabbed Thadwick hard by the upper arm and pulled him from the dome, just as the angry teeth of the Rex were crushing it like paper.

            Twisting, the ball in his shoulder tugging on the socket, the new kid slung Thadwick past him and the bully fell forward.  

            "_Run!_" the boy screamed, but Thadwick only dug his head down into the gravel like an ostrich, bawling.  So the new kid turned and faced the monster that had already discerned there was no food in the little dome.  He heard the heavy blasts of air from the giant lizard's nostrils and he also heard the distant shouts of the other children.  They sounded almost like cheers, the teasers now cheering him towards his doom.  And he felt a terrible urge to go to it, what started as pain and lead to courage now felt like sickness in his gut.  The Rex cocked its head, almost confused by this little creature that didn't run, and then with mighty steps it approached.

            The new kid lunged his arm only to realize it wasn't holding the rock anymore, so he let out a panicked yelp and then ran forward under the monster's trunk-like legs.  He feared the beast would continue on to Thadwick so he turned and yelled, but already the Rex was turning to charge again.  To draw it away the boy ran off to the other end of the playground, hurdling the splintered remains of wooden climbing sets, and the Rex charged but stepped hard on a plate-metal slide that did not give so easily and so the creature lost its footing and sidestepped awkwardly to gain balance.  The new kid thought he heard the distant voices rally up in applause but couldn't be certain and wouldn't take the time now to look.  He scanned the ground desperately and finally found it, a long metal bar torn jaggedly from the dome structure, the end was crude and spiked, but it was not so long that he could not carry it.  He fished it up and waited for the beast that had now readied itself and muscled back to release an angry roar.  Then it lunged forward once more and for some reason, in that instant, the boy realized that he wasn't even sweating, that he wasn't even afraid.  

            The T-Rex brought its head down for the fatal chomp but the boy sidestepped and swung the bar around like a greatsword, splattering the creature's eye like a hammer would an orange.  The monster lurched forward two bulky steps and turned hard in the direction of its good eye, loosing furious roars and screeches.  It was horribly disoriented, it began to charge for a moment only to stop and try to balance itself, always turning slightly in the direction of the uninjured eye.  It seemed unable to find the boy, and realizing this the boy backed away rather quickly, hoping that what he'd done would be enough.  The amount of blood alone was stealing from him a will to fight; it spurted from the socket in intervallic shots of canon velocities.  At last the creature would not handle the swirling world around it, and it both dashed and hobbled away from the grounds towards the forest that, the boy could only assume, it came from, though he couldn't tell if the dinosaur knew where it headed.  But he heard the distinct scurry of whipping leaves as it proceeded further and further back into the foliage, eventually beyond his vision, that he just now was noticing was quite keen.  He was breathing hard to be certain, but his hands did not tremble, and the feeling of sickness had faded.  In fact, all things considered, he felt fine.

            He contentedly walked over to where Thadwick was still hulking himself in the gravel, and he saw the other children rushing towards the grounds, despite an incredibly fat woman now a ways behind them yelling at them to halt.  They rushed in and circled around him and yelled things that he couldn't make out, it came like a hurricane of sound.  But it was good sound, at least that he could tell.  The winds had changed as it were.

            (_Gipson…_)

            The bully Thadwick was thoroughly abashed, though he stood quickly when the others arrived to try to save face.  He failed, and a grin formed on the new kid's lips.  When Headmistress Glump finally arrived she had only pronouncements to deliver but the children gave little care to her, and were in no mood to return to class.  

(_Gipson…_)

They all faced in to the eye of their storm, shouting stupid little lines of admiration and wonderment.  But it meant something to the boy; it hit him as a warmth he'd never known.  So there are good things in this world, he thought, and whatever fear may have existed in himself, his confusion over what had come over him, it was slight and defeated for the moment.  He beamed.

"What was your name again, kid?" asked one of the boys, one of Thadwick's goons the new kid noticed.  

"Oh, it's Herrik," he responded.  "Herrik…"

"_Gipson!!!_" shouted Seville.

Gipson's eyelids fluttered twice and then the image snapped into place, and even before it had focused his mind began to register a count of bodies.  Three that he knew, three that he didn't, six all told.  To his left was the Dr. Darrin Sylum, affixing a studious eye on him, and to the doctor's left sat Seville, clearly prepared to shout again if need be.  Not sitting at the round table was the apprentice clergyman Edrick Valance, who was back a little ways against the wall standing next to a high bar stool.  To Gipson's right this time he saw three more or less indistinct men, commoners by their clothes, but not sedentary.  Travelers he thought, but not the easy going type as he discerned a gray, foul look about them, the kind of shadow that the mind puts there more than might exist, a very potent reflex in the knight's repertoire.  Their faces were hardened, fixed in a permanent scowl, and the one that let teeth show was missing more than a few.

"Are you with us this time, big guy?" asked Seville, a bit perturbed.  "The cards don't play themselves."

"Yes, yes," he thought quickly, "I'm sorry, I must be a little tired, gents."

"You don't get tired," continued Seville, now just playing with the old knight.  

            "Well, I do have my rare moments.  I recommend you take great note of this for it's the last you will see of it.  Whose turn?"

            "Yours, of course," said one of the dark men sitting to his right.  His voice had the dusty, rakish sound of a seaman too long away from the ocean breeze.

            Gipson remembered now, looking at the five cards gripped in his fingers.  Nothing, zilch, terrible hand.  

            "Fold," he said, and passed the cards over to the furthest new man, who had the deck.  They rolled their eyes and spoke to themselves under their breathe, having waited that long for a fold.  Gipson said nothing in response though, he kept quiet and let the memory rush back to him.  He rarely dozed and didn't care to do it.  The cards were played out and a meager pile of golden coins was pressed over to Seville who seemed overly bright, saying something about having all the luck that night.  He's acting, thought Gipson, something that worried him and he made sure his blades were still equipped.  

            It was a traveler's pub, he remembered.  They were two days out now from Corneria, and with a second day of travel showing little in the way of progress; the light warriors had grown solemn, against the attempted well-wishings of Dr. Sylum.  Truthfully, Gipson still held onto his hope and didn't worry, and he wouldn't think that Seville would question the professor in the least, and so it was only idly relevant at the moment.  He would at least wait until they arrived at the next major commerce city, named Jrist, another day's travel to the north, before he considered losing steam.  If there was word to find, it would be found there.  Looking out the window and quickly scanning the display of stars it was clear that night was long fallen; he wished to rest soon.  Old bones don't work like they used to.

            "Where'd you say you was headed?" asked one of the men to Gipson's right as he dealt out the hand.  Sylum, taking up his diplomatic responsibilities, did the talking.

            "Didn't say, and don't know.  Just traveling here to there, Mr. Smythe."

            "Ah, but there must be a 'there'," responded the man apparently named Smythe, "It's not a day when people do much travel for no reason."

            "We stopped by the Centennial, on the first night that is."

            "And left so soon?" Smythe was sneering.

            "It didn't suit us quite right."  Sylum was flustering.  Gipson felt the handle of a short sword under the table, and Seville's eyes were widened and cautious.  

            "And what does suit you?"

            "What suits us is _money_," Seville suddenly broke in with a wide smile, "Full house!"

            Cards were thrown down in anger and another pile shuffled over to the youngest of them, who amusingly cackled and stacked the coins into impressive piles.  

            "Don't get greedy over luck, Seville," said Edrick with his head laid back against the wall, "If you were to have me list things that do not last…"

            "Well it's the devil's luck he's got tonight, boy-o," said a man next to Smythe, and Smythe finished a thought.

            "Or cheater's luck."  His raspy voice was instantly weighty.  

            "Mr. Smythe, we've done this already.  You checked the deck yourself.  Fifty-two then and fifty-two now, count if you like," Seville countered.

            "Were that the only method then of course, but you and I know it is not.  It's your deck so your mark."

            "And what would you ask?" Sylum interrupted.

            "Professor, I got it." Said Seville, "Mr. Smythe isn't serious."

            "Am I not?  Well then, sleeves up."  Smythe's gritty face showed not the faintest hint of a joke, and the other's just looked at him momentarily.  "A gamer's courtesy, as travelers I'm sure you're aware."

            Seville became still and careful.

            "I'd rather not," he said.  

            "And therefore admit that you've cheated us," said the snarling Smythe, and Seville came to realize how ghoulish the gray-haired man looked.  

            "It's not that…" but then Edrick began to speak before Seville could properly think.

            "Mr. Smythe, why do make such … ridiculous requests, when you've no … reason to accuse us … and … on my word … as a priest of the church I can assure you there is no ill-play."  He stumbled over the words frantically, and they diminished almost to nothingness as he spoke.

            "Ill-play from the ill-company of a most ill-church.  Indeed I have every reason to accuse anyone when the entire world has turned ill as it has, priest of the church.  I come from over the seas but here now stay because the winds have turned stale even as the seas churn in fury.  The very ground itself has soured.  All is slipping into chaos.  And if I can't trust the sea, I certainly won't trust a rogue and his friend of the church.  Especially those that keep company with an old knight who clearly couldn't keep a watch past supper and a soft-boy of books.  You're no travelers."

            "It was a good effort, Eddie," said Seville, "You've already proven your mettle beyond my highest hopes time and again.  But this man here is clearly insane, and only listens to insanity.  So I'll give it to him."  And Seville flashed a cautious glance to Gipson and then pulled up the right sleeve of his jacket, revealing the arm flush with black scars.  "Do you see any cards, because I don't."

            "My word…" muttered Smythe and even the men to either side became wide-eyed and curious.  Gipson, always keeping track of the complete surroundings, noticed that Seville had drawn eyes from other tables as well, so he nodded his head towards him to wrap things up, but Seville was not satisfied with that.  

            "One more hand then, just to be sure," Seville said, rolling up the other sleeve and then grabbing the deck.  "Eddie, deal."  

            "I don't think I should get involved with…"

            "_Eddie!_"  The apprentice clergyman vaulted to the table and hastily grabbed up the deck, nearly spilling them all to the floor but luckily saving face.

            "One more game?" asked Smythe, still in awe of the odd and somehow frightening black whelps running all down Seville's arm.

            "Because I wouldn't want you to lose all hope and think that all in this world is ill.  We should at least have a happy game of poker to look to after the day has waned.  Surely you trust the priest to deal a hand without bias?"  And nobody said anything after that, but rather waited to see the drama played out.  Edrick passed each of the six their cards and also handled the swaps, hand visibly shaking as he passed them around.  As the turns circled around the table the central pile of gold grew heavy, the largest pot of the night.  At the swaps Smythe took three cards, but Seville took only one, not for a moment breaking his stare at the dark man across the way.  Gipson had to remember to advise against things like this later.  As the only traveler among his crew he knew it was not wise to deal with other travelers.  Few were there with such benevolent goals as their own.  Perhaps a talk with Seville about the meaning of cockiness.  

            "That's it then, left of the dealer first, that's you," said Seville to the man to Smythe's right.  It was so arranged that Seville would show last.  Wow, thought Sylum, still not concluding on any judgment of the event, did Seville have a flare for drama.  He liked it, the professor, liked it a lot.  The first man and Smythe turned out with no better than pairs, but the final of the unknown men had a high three of a kind, which beat out both Gipson and Sylum.  Seville paused for effect and cast glances to everyone.

           "Three of a kind is a strong hand, but it doesn't even come close to my straight flush," then he laid down the nine, ten, jack, queen, and king of spades, as pretty as could be.  "Better luck next time, she's my lady tonight."  

            Smythe slapped his fast on the table, downing Seville's golden towers and sending the coins rolling along the floor.  He pointed a sharp finger, "You've every look of a cheat!"

            "And you've every look of a man walking quietly out the door.  I'll get your tab, don't think you can anymore anyways."

            A growl seemed to want to crawl out of Smythe, but the man forced it back, turned, and walked with the other two out of the bar.

            Edrick helped Seville fetch all of the scattered gold while the older two sat at the table and gave each other opposite looks.  Gipson had always worked his way around such people by playing off his likeability.  Actually, he rarely got into such situations because of that.  But Seville confused him briefly.  The boy seemed to aim for conflict, almost aggressively so.  Despite definitely being able to put the earned money to use (the group had decided that all winnings should first handle provisions, and then be given to the victor), Gipson had desperately hoped that the last hand would go to Smythe or his comrades.  The knight had always relied on his, usually, accurate ability to judge people quickly, but that first night at the _Lux_ he had not sensed this in Seville.  This felt desperately portentous.  He checked his blades once more.  

Sylum however seemed rather bright about the event.  After the three had walked out he had given Seville a slap on the back, another warning to Gipson's heart.  It became obvious how little they knew of adventuring.  They had little hope of success, he realized, unless the professor be correct in his theories of fate and destiny.  

Seville plopped back into his chair like one who has eaten more than his fill, and Edrick set the bulgy coin pouch down and then finally joined them at the table.  With a delicious grin on his face, Seville slowly unrolled his left sleeve, and just as it neared the base a rolled-up playing card fell out, the ace of spades.

"You did cheat!" shouted Edrick.  

"Quiet down, Eddie!  'Course I did, fools like that are happily parted with their money, trust me.  They're not gonna do anything with it for the betterment of society.  Where as we are on a divine mission and are going to need food tomorrow."  Gipson didn't like it one bit.

"Even so, fools like that can be dangerous.  We're not talking about forest imps here," the knight said.  "That Smythe had a dark look about him, grizzled for sure, but I've no doubt he has skill with a blade, a skill built from use."

"Eh, you too, Master Gipson?  I mean, I expected it from Eddie."

"It was quite a show to put on just to hide the fact that he was right.  You've seen few taverns outside your godfather's, and believe me they are not all so friendly as even this one.  I will expect the utmost caution from all of my teammates.  Don't speak of fools when you yourself are foolish."  Gipson feared the dark Smythe.  He was the first man in a long time to suggest the knight's proper age.

"It was just … eh, fine … you got it, big guy.  No more cheating at poker."  Seville reclined the chair back and put his feet up.   

They sat there quietly for the moment, letting that topic settle away.  Edrick had wanted to go on and scold Seville further, but assumed he wouldn't do as good a job as the knight, so chose to stay quiet instead.  Among the many considerations that had crossed his mind over the two long days of walking was the wondering of whether or not becoming a light warrior would set Seville straight.  And Sylum too, now that he thought of it.  Perhaps now it was his disappointment that quieted him.  He'd spent many nights in anger at himself, angry he was unable to stop Seville from whatever crime.  If only he could press his will on others.  If only Seville would ask to be good, he would teach him.  If only he could do anything.  The time passed a little longer, the night's animals were in full life.

"What did you think of the man's speech, professor," asked Edrick to break the quiet, "About the wind going stale and everything?"

           "Thought it was a fine speech.   A little dramatic maybe but the night certainly isn't short of that.  I found it interesting, his mention of chaos."

            "How's that?"

            "Well, I read this rather depressing essay a long time ago by the famous Dr. Unne," the others showed no sign of having heard of him, "in which he states that the only innate quality of existence is chaos, a force which he called _Sin_, and though it seems to fluctuate, in other words seems to be more apparent at some times than others, it is nevertheless ultimately eternal.  And therefore, over the millennia, creatures of the world have become bound to chaos, many species have become its puppet, and that is why there is evil, and so evil is unending.  Unne made quite clear that this is the _only _thing you can count on when you're in a pinch.  Like I said, depressing.  People don't generally hold with it, but I'll admit that it seems a fair judgment of this world, if not a tad too gloomy."

            "So how was he first received?  Dr. Unne, I mean?" questioned Edrick, fascinated and needlessly nervous.

            "People thought he was nuts.  Would have put him away were it not for his work on the ancient language, which is astonishing."

            "So whenever we find the princess and the stakes get high, at least we can count on everything going wrong," entered an amused Seville.

            "Right on the money!"

            "Peachy.  Hey, you guys wanna play some more?  No money, of course.  I'll even roll my sleeves up."

            So they set out to the cards once again, and since no coins were crossing the table, Edrick joined them, much to the other's dismay as luck was truly with him.  After he could have potentially made more money for the group than Seville even when cheating, Seville spoke.

            "We have got to get you behind a real game, Eddie."

            "You already know the answer, Seville."

            "Yeah, but hear me out.  If we had the kind of financial security we could count on with you playing, then I wouldn't have to cheat anymore.  I'd be a better man."

            "It's our choices, Seville, not our options that make us who we are."

            "Buddy, haven't you been listening to the good professor?  We're workin' for fate now, there _are_ no choices."

            "Professor, is how Seville plays cards effected by fate?"  Asked Edrick while he absent-mindedly stared at his hand.  Sylum passed two across the table and cleared his throat.

            "Well, technically yes.  It encompasses everything.  It decides when you go to the bathroom…"

            "That's kinda creepy," said Seville, trying to get a rise out of anybody, his dark dream of the night before forgotten, or at least forgiven.

            "But like I said…"

            "Wait a sec," interrupted Seville, "Let me try.  I wonder how you combine the infallibility of destiny with the eternal presence of chaos.  Your basically saying that there is a one hundred percent chance that our life is going to suck.  We've no choice to escape chaos."

            "Well, like I said…"

            "_Get down!_"

            The arrow shuttled just over Dr. Sylum's ear and he yelped aloud and scrambled to the floor where he met the eyes of Seville and Edrick.  Then they heard the wooden _thunk_ of another arrow striking the table.  They saw Gipson stand and pull free two of his swords.  He dashed over to the wall next to the window and called again,

            "Move!  Move!  Next to the wall!"

            The three men scurried like salamanders from the flame to the wall beside Gipson, who was checking with quick nods of his head out the window, one long sword and one short sword drawn.  By their magical aura it was clearly the expensive ones.  Seville made to get up, already having pulled his daggers, but Gipson pressed him hard down by the shoulder and told him to stay.  

            "Smythe returns," the knight said.  "And his friends."

            He couldn't find them out the window so he slowly and silently stepped to the door, expecting a charge.  Every patron in the establishment hunkered under a table, and the barkeep was kneeling down behind his counter.  Gipson checked his surroundings in his routine manner.  Seventeen bodies under tables, three against the wall, one behind the counter, three windows, two against the back wall, one along this wall, _open!_  

            "Seville," Gipson mouthed, "Close."

            The rogue understood and flipped the shades of the window shut, but didn't reach up to lock them.  Apparently the attackers had been waiting for that sign, for the instant it happened the front door was smashed open and three bodies came running through, the first two falling just as quickly as Gipson had sliced them as they came.  The dark Mr. Smythe entered last with a long sword drawn, but he survived for all of two parries before the knight had swiftly strafed sideways and run the man through the lower back.  Smythe seemed to hiccup once, and then cough, then his eyes glazed and he fell.  Gipson stood momentarily breathing heavily, rotating his head to see every direction, and then he looked out the broken doorframe to find backup but saw none.  He was already back inside and checking the vital signs of the bodies before the others thought to get up.  It was so fast.

            "Hah!" Gipson said, pleased, "Three moves!  I expected more from the old rascal.  Didn't expect a fogey like me to hear the pull of a bow from fifty feet I'd wager.  Hard learned lessons!"

            The knight laughed and started piling the bodies.  

            "Was that entirely necessary?" said Edrick after he stood and brushed down his robe.

            "Necessary?" asked Gipson, confused.

            "With your skills, you could have subdued them just as easily."

            "I don't think they were trying to subdue us, Edrick," responded the knight.

"That's no reason to … to just kill them."  The apprentice clergyman spoke loudly.

"And what reason had I otherwise?  Is defense not a reason?" asked Gipson, now with an almost dumfounded look on his square face.

"What reason had you not to _kill_ someone?!" shot back the clergyman, aghast.

"Don't get me wrong, Edrick, I take no pleasure in it.  But I kind of figured I just saved three lives."

"At the cost of another three, Master Knight!" Edrick shouted angrily.  "We can't … _do_ that!"

"Defend ourselves from attack?!" the old knight looked offended, as if a personal hobby of his had been dejected by the entire population of Corneria.  

"We can't have a body count!"  For once Edrick was not concerned about those around him, who had all meant to return to their seats but only stood as the two yelled at each other.  The bartender had been moments away from kicking them out before it started.

"I don't understand how you can accuse me for keeping you alive…"

"You mean," Dr. Sylum said suddenly to quell the others, speaking to Edrick, "You mean as those who carry the orbs.  You mean because we are the Lux."

He chose an archaic way of saying it in hopes the other patrons would not follow, and they didn't appear to.  To the doctor it seemed only natural to spread that the light warriors, or the Lux, had begun their quest, but realized then how uncomfortable Edrick or even Seville might have felt of this, so he decided to keep it low.  Between not being believed and potentially being persecuted for their insanity, it probably wasn't best to bring it up on a regular basis anyways, at least not until after the rescue of the princess.  The thought cast a dim feeling on Sylum as he spoke.  Fame would have to wait.

"I mean that, yes," continued Edrick, "But I shouldn't have to mean anything, should 'not murdering people' not stand on its own?"

Seville spoke, "Edrick, I know how you feel, but it was defense of an unprovoked attack.  We should…"

"I would hardly call it unprovoked, Seville," said the priest bitterly, "One crime leads only to another."  

"Beg your pardon," broke in the bartender, clearly having had enough, "But I think it's time for you fellas to leave, and take out your garbage with you." 

Gipson glanced at him with a stern grimace and then turned back to the others who seemed unwilling to look at each other at the moment.

"Besides, Domino could be around.  He works out of Jrist," Edrick said, surprisingly shocked and angered.

"Yeah, a report of this is the last thing we need," said Seville, trying his best not to make it an attack on Gipson's actions.  He motioned to the others that they should start to leave.  

"We go, then, we'll find a place to stop along the road."  To that the others seemed agreed.

The night road was silent but for the uneven, albeit weak, wisps of wind low along the ground.  They walked further apart than usual, with Gipson far in the lead.  Nobody even considered mindless talk to keep spirits high; at the time they simply had no spirits at all.  Edrick was filled with sick feelings he barely knew, if at all.  Three men murdered just before his eyes, by a close acquaintance, a friend even.  Of all things he had thought of in the quiet solitude of his normal demeanor, the taking of lives had somehow not occurred to him.  The light warriors were not meant to deal death, he was sure of it.  They were life savers, not takers.  

As usual Seville and Dr. Sylum thought along the same lines, both being of general disinterest in either case.  They both cared about not getting caught, not whether or not the event went down.  But Seville had one peculiar realization as he watched Gipson tear through the three men with such graceful precision.  He thought that if the time came, he could do it, and would.

Herrik Gipson was mainly confused, but felt distant from the group now, detached from it by the sharp words of the priest.  He didn't feel that he'd done anything wrong; only protected those he'd come to care for.  The scolding almost gave him a physical sensation, like a plasmatic substance had been released through his whole body and was running up and down his spine, making him weak.  He knew what he felt.  It was criticism for something he'd always done for praise.  Until he finally fell asleep that night under cold stars and beside meandering fire, he felt for the first time since long ago in a small classroom the bitterness of shame.  But when sleep did come it bid him no welcome.


	8. The Love Below Pt 2

Author's Notes

            Onrac is the city with the Sea Shrine, where you fight the Water Fiend, Kraken.  That's not important to my story, just reminding people which city we're talking about for those that have played the game.  Unlike Jrist, which is also featured in this chapter, I did not make Onrac up.

Lux Aeterna 

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 8 ~ The Love Below Pt. Two

            The great cat-like beast marked the boundaries of its cage by walking in incessant, hungry circles, always staring out with its grim yellow eyes.  It was monstrously large for a cat, even for a tiger, whose shape it most distinctly resembled, and all muscle, as any of its ferocious lunges into the metal bars made clear.  They were bending just slightly.  Along with its extraordinary size the tiger had two front canine teeth over six inches long, with both inner ridges and points as sharp as any forged blade.  But perhaps most amazing of all was the creature's fur, not that it was too fine or bushy, the pelt would not be a waste but not suitably luxurious either, but that it was an incredibly peculiar hue of dark purple, with deep black spots running laterally over the back and hind legs.  In the night the tiger would blend well enough with the shades of jungle canopy, but under the sunlight one could not ignore the brilliant violet sheen of its coat.  Black panthers had been seen often enough hunting on the edges of the Onrac forest, but never a beast of this color, indeed, never this beast.  The purple tiger halted its spiraling march momentarily to press its face up into the bars and stand high on its back legs, letting out a guttural hiss.  A hefty metallic clang answered its paws as they collided down with the surface, but the beast did not return to circling.  With another hiss it shot its right arm, bearing wide the five inch-long claws, out through the bars and slashed into the grass, reaching as far as it could.  And sitting not a foot away, close enough that the slinging dirt and grass splashed onto his feet, was Herrik Gipson.  He shook the dirt off his right foot, not even looking up.

            Herrik was busy chewing a crude wooden lead pencil between his front teeth, deeply in thought.  He wore khaki clothing, light traveling clothes that ironically he preferred when he didn't have to go anywhere, and for the day his glowing red hair was let hang lazily down, as he kept it when it he didn't have to see anybody.  Along with the pencil he had only a thick journal, with pages bent and folded with wear.  It was open to a mostly empty page opposite a page filled with a sketch of the caged tiger.  Written across the top in Herrik's _professional_ hand, as he called it, was the word _Sabertooth_.  He seemed to take no heed of the snarling creature's attacks and growls, but only sat like tree stump, lost in his thoughts.  Eventually he concluded on something to say and wrote down in the journal, rather small and sheepishly,

_Only eats meat._

            He wasn't very good at this part of things.  Passionately he could orate every idiosyncrasy of any animal he'd met, listing volumes of facts from average height and weight to attack patterns and habitat, and had become very good at testing for this information when it was not obvious, for instance by offering vegetation to such beasts as the sabertooths, quickly to realize they'd have no taste of it.  But he didn't have the patience for written words, or for sketches for that matter, since his realization of the tiger on the page was lucky if it could be called a vague example.  All things get better with time he thought to himself whenever he thought about it at all, which was every time he set out to catalogue his thoughts in writing, but in two years of practice there had been no improvement.  It just didn't come to him like hunting the creatures did.  He recognized this only with sleepless frustration.  Annoyed with himself, he slashed through his previous marks and added a new, equally unimportant thought,

_Only eats meat.  Larger than most tigers._

            But Herrik only had to look at those words for a moment before they too were crossed out, the young monster hunter shaking his head in disbelief at his difficulties at what should come so easily.  Then finding himself disgusted with everything he'd written down he tore out the page and put the tip of his pencil to the clean one below.  Might as well start with the name, he thought.

            "Magnificent creature!" said a gentle voice behind him, and with his lips instantly curling into a smile, Herrik turned around to find a short, stocky man in work pants and a white buttoned shirt looking down at him.  The man had a face covered with milk-white hair, beard and mustache and countless whiskers, and he wore a flat-top hat with a narrow brim and gray ribbon tied around it.  He held a long and wide leather flap used for rolling maps under his right arm.  "It really is, Herrik, an astonishing find."

            "Professor Maddox, I hoped you'd come by," Herrik said as he stood and shook the old man's hand.  "It's more astonishing than you know.  The fur, you notice the color of the fur?"

            The professor raised his hand as if to make the young man yield, "Herrik, my lad, there's something I want to talk about."

            "There's always something you want to talk about, it can wait, it can wait."  Herrik was smiling very intently now, and though he had only the one smile he really knew how to use, it injected itself like an infection into any who saw it.  He moved closer to the cage and rounded about to give a demonstration.

            "But I really would like to discuss this while the time suits us," the professor said.

            "The fur, professor, surely you find the color out of the ordinary."

            "Well yes, but…" the professor instantly flustered in the face of Herrik's zeal, hard-bitten by his own love of science.

            "And had I found him somewhere in the Onrac forest, or even as far off as the Cardian Islands I might have agreed with you, but to find this marvelous beast I had to search the hidden places of the world," Herrik said, to which the professor sighed and let his yielding hands slouch to his sides.

"Hidden places, Herrik?"

"Absolutely.  I'll admit I was finally beaten over by the myths of a great monster dwelling in the north lake that feeds the falls and runs into the Onrac River.  So I hiked along its path, with a canoe of course, for the trip back, but when I came to the mountain wall it was too steep to climb.  But I found something better.  A cave, behind the great waterfall, and the walls of this cave run with dark purple stone, identical to the sabertooth's fur."

"So," concluded the professor, not showing signs of surprise, "What would seem nature's folly is truthfully its miracle.  Time and again we've discovered this together, lad.  I think we should…"

"Oh, but that's not the half of it, professor," Herrik shouted energetically.  "Watch, watch!"

Herrik ran over to his journal lying on the ground, shook it up in the air, and scooped up the small flat mirror that fell out.  When he stood upright he spun his head in towards Professor Maddox and gave a boyish grin, to which the professor only shook his head acceptingly.  And then Herrik called out:

'Hey!  Hey!" and the giant, fanged tiger perked its ears and stopped circling once more.  It scrunched its eyes menacingly, filled with hatred.  Herrik looked up quickly and found the sun, and then he held the mirror low and cast the white rays into the cage over the face of the sabertooth.  The purple cat looked confused for a moment, but then it blinked tightly and turned away, annoyed.  

"What did you notice about the eyes, professor?"

"What was I supposed to notice, Herrik?" questioned the professor right back, eager to finish this up and get to his topic which he felt quite dire.  Herrik realized this, but didn't show that he cared.

"The eyes didn't reflect the light."

"Sun's bright today."

"Professor, cat eyes glow in the dark and they shimmer under bright light.  Every one I've ever dealt with has been that way, check the journal if you like."  The professor did not check the journal.  "So why, professor, why would this cat, and a cave dweller at that, not require darkvision or at least low-light vision?"

Against all the responsible powers in his body Professor Maddox could not ignore the question, it stuck him as precisely as would a blade, and he rummaged through his tired brain for the answer, returning with nothing but mystery.  

"It _is_ a strange scenario," said the professor.

"I thought so too," Herrik responded, happy to have found the man's interest, "but the answer, now that's really amazing!  Come on, come on!"  

Herrik tugged hard at the professor's arm, and caught off his balance, the professor hopped over on his left leg and dropped the leather flap, which fell into the soft dirt with an impressive thud.  

"What?  Have you got every map from the college in there?" Herrik said mindlessly as he pulled the old man behind a slab of wood that was propped up just by, long and wide enough to completely cover them from view.  The red-haired monster hunter quickly sparked up a flame in a pile of roughage that had clearly already been prepared and once it began to climb he threw a long stone over it.

"Let's give things a few seconds to die down," he said.  "Now, this works better at night but you should find this suitable enough."  The professor only widened his hands in a gesture of agreement, acknowledging the futility of trying to stop things now that the young boy had really gotten into it.  

"Ready," said Herrik.  He grabbed a short-handled, wide-bladed shovel that was laid down next to the plank and held the blade up above the top of the wood.  He bounced it a little, and swayed it back and forth, never letting much more than the top of the handle breech over the rim of the plank, but there was no apparent reason for it.  By the time he brought the shovel down, the professor had gone to itching his plump, sunburned nose and wearing a face of confusion.

"Nothing right?" Herrik asked rhetorically, "Well, how about this?"

Then Herrik lifted his hand above the rim of the wooden plank and spread out his fingers, and then proceeded to bounce and sway it around just as he had the blade of the shovel.  The professor wanted to find a sterner way to indicate his confusion, but then the sabertooth in its cage about ten yards away started to growl, beginning with an upset hiss.  It spit and yelped a few times and finally settled for growling from its chest, and then the silence fell once more, and likely it had returned to frustrated pacing.  Herrik looked at the professor intently, knowing just what he would say, but wanting to hear it first.

"So the instinctual animal can recognize foe from … gardening tool.  I wish you would just tell me…"

"Not quite, professor, not quite.  Now watch."  

Herrik grabbed the long stone, which actually represented a shovel in its basic dimensions, out of the fire with a thick cloth and, as he had everything else, held it above the lip of the wooden barrier.  Within instants, the angered sabertooth set to his snarling once more.  

"It's heat, professor!  It sees heat!  Even in the middle of summer a canyon breeze would mist the cave I found cool to the skin, and no manner of camouflage from any prey could hide it from a hunter that sees body heat."

Professor Maddox was suddenly struck with a sad feeling, one of severed attachment and abandonment that he had trouble curbing.  He did not allow it to show.  He tried to voice affirmation.

"It's," and he paused for effect, shaking his head, "It's a remarkable discovery, Herrik.  Really remarkable!"  Herrik laughed brightly.

"Thanks!"  Herrik jumped to his feet, pressed out the small fire, and walked over towards the cage, ignoring the tiger's attempts at slashing him.  The professor stood and then picked up the heavy leather flap he dropped.  He stood for a moment watching the young man, just a month over twenty, as he walked around the cage, speaking random things.  The sour feeling within was so difficult to decipher.  He understood at least his affections for the boy, the father-like affections the entire town had developed for the strange red-haired kid that could master any beast.  It was such a terrible burden watching him go.  Then, feeling almost sick with a sudden urge to out with his concern, the whole reason he'd come, the professor approached.  

"I plan to see if the curator will let me have one of the monstrous iguanas..." Herrik was saying, "...from the reptile exhibit to test its sight with a cold-blooded creature.  Maybe its sense of smell is also…"

"Herrik, what day is it?" asked the professor with definite force.

"Huh?" was all the Herrik gave back, but he did stop and look.

"What day is today?  The date?" Professor Maddox asked again, standing still and trying to be tall.

"You come all the way out here to ask me that?" Herrik said jokingly.  "Let's see, I left on the seventh, so ..." He counted days off on his fingers.

"The thirteenth," he finally said.

"Fifteenth, Herrik.  It's the fifteenth."  The professor remained still, and the young man cocked his head slightly, half-confused, half-looking for the point.  "You were out for two days; doc didn't think you were going to make it this time."

"Out for two days?"

"Do you remember, Herrik?  Do you remember bringing that monster into town with only an inch of life left?  Do you remember collapsing just before the tavern fountain?  Anything?"

Herrik was startled and uneasy.  He walked over to the professor slowly, bewildered.

"Collapsed?" he questioned distantly.

"That creature, the tiger, must've put up a fight, more than even you could handle."

"But I don't feel injured."  Herrik was looking around not only his body but the grounds, as if he was scanning for a charging enemy.  Out for two days?  It was completely blank.  The vast expanse of the Onrac field suddenly felt small, and he paranoid.

"Yes, yes, but you never do.  Time and again you've proven to us your threshold for pain, and poor Doctor Thane could make his life's work of your incredible resiliency, but I must again urge your caution.  Whether you feel it or not this dangerous lifestyle of yours has repercussions.  Life threatening ones."

"I ... I don't remember any of it."  

            "We'll let that speak for itself."  The professor patted the young man on the back, who then knelt down by his journal and became stationary.  When the professor knelt down beside Herrik, wincing at his painful joints, he was heartbroken by the incredible look of loss drawn on Herrik's face.  It certainly appeared that more than two days had just been stolen from the lad.  He ruffled his beard in his hand and thought of what he could say.

            "Look, Herrik my boy, your contributions to this institution, to this entire city, have been and continue to be incredible. You have a gift, and more raw talent for what you do than anybody I've ever heard of.  But more important, Herrik, than these stunning creatures you bring to the institute, is you.  Onrac would rather have you than animals to fill up its zoo and bring tourists.  Your coming was mysterious to us, but now your presence is too endeared to be broken by the claws of some beast.  This thing you do.  People rally around you for it, your drawing power is unquestionable.  Don't let it be the end of you."

            Herrik felt both obliged and grievous, almost drawn to tears.  He ran his hands through his long, red hair a few times and remained silent on is kneeling legs.  He didn't want to hear what he was afraid the professor was really trying to say.

            "You mean for me to stop?" he asked lowly, his voice depressingly sullen.  And to this Professor Maddox found a warm and friendly smile.

            "No, my boy, of course not.  I don't make your decisions.  I was just worried, that's all.  Caution is what I mean."  The professor stood and patted Herrik once more on the back.  He stretched his old spine with a groan.  "Why, that'd be like taking your life away myself.  You're a bright kid, and filled with an uncommon zest for life.  The joy you put into everything you do revives this old man's heart, but the love below, Herrik, the love below is in your animals.  We all know it, and we want you to remember that though it be love, it's not worth dying over, not when the reward is better.  So caution, that's all I came to say."

            The young man kneeling on the soft grass now looked as if he himself had just been revived and given a golden world to rule.  He brought out that perfect smile of his and beamed it out to the old man standing above him.

            "I will, professor, I will," he said, and was then struck with a desire to flip through his long journal.  All those many adventures and bested monsters, still there to last, not going away.  He sailed through every encounter with vivid memory, and for the moment didn't even get down on himself when he saw the jagged, hasty lines of his amateur sketches.  He realized one instant that he couldn't remember a time when he'd felt more proud of his work, and he forgot the foreboding gap covering the past two days of his memory.  He felt bulletproof.  It was more than a few minutes before he realized the professor had not gone, had not even budged, actually.  He looked up.

            "I wish you would let us pay you," the professor said.

            "Not that again!  My answer's always been no.  We both know that I don't need money."

            "But _we_ need to give you money.  It would make everybody more comfortable, to alleviate some of the liability, I think."

            "But at that point it would be a job, professor," Herrik said, standing and throwing down his journal and pencil.  "And a job just isn't how I feel about it.  The love below, right?  It's in the animals.  What could money do?  Besides, I get my rewards, something better than gold."

            "I know, my boy, I know.  You do it for us, and that's commendable, but why not can we do something for you in return?"  The professor had done his best to maintain a calm, fatherly, and scholarly voice.  He outstretched his hands to punctuate his words.

            "My dear professor, for ten years now you've been all I know of a father," Herrik placed both hands on the shorter man's shoulders and looked in deeply, "You can trust me as you would a son.  You do so much more for me than I do for you.  You do more than enough."

            Without waiting for a facial response, Herrik released and turned back to the sabertooth cage, wanting to place his eyes elsewhere.

            "I will not take pay for the animals.  The love below."

            "Well, you are going to take something," the professor pulled out front the leather flap he'd been carrying and started to untie the middle fasten, "And this is non-negotiable."

            "Oh, what's that?" asked Herrik, smirking.  He came back around and faced the old man square.  

            Professor Maddox loosed the flap, and swung it open, revealing in its folds a vibrant, shimmering blade.  A longsword, the handle was of intricately carved steel, finished with spirals of blue silver, and the two sides of the hilt were fashioned like dragon heads, the artisan smith accounting for every nook and scale.  Metal fire wreathed from their mouths and coursed down the handle to the base where they burst in an octagonal flare of spikes.  And the blade itself was a dim and somehow calming aqua, as if to look upon the steel was to look upon tranquility itself.  The pulsing aura of the sword ran watery lines over Herrik's face, like the shadows of a dormant sea.  And ornately etched along the blade was a name in the glyphs of the ancient language.  

            "This is _Drâco_, sword of dragons.  The ancient creatures know no greater fear than a blade such as this, but its power goes beyond the winged ones.  The might in this sword casts a terror in nature itself when in the wrong hands, but in your hands, will be a just ally.  Take it, and master it."

            Herrik, already having formed his love of blades for many years past, felt his knees weaken to the brink of buckling as he took the sword by tip and hilt.  His breaths became like heavy sighs, his eyes as bright as if he were cast into a star.

            "How ... how did you get this?"  His voice weak and stammered with awe-found shock.

            "A story for another time, Herrik.  Put those thoughts aside.  Use it now.  _Drâco_ will be your servant."  The professor summoned from his wise age the full power of eloquence.  He stepped backwards with arms spread wide to the side, creating a reach of space before the Dragon Sword's new bearer.  "_Swing!"_

            Herrik took the thick hilt, unsure of the random pattern of bulbous blue swirls down the shaft, but instantly it felt as if the handle molded to his hand, fitting his contour naturally, and the sword became light, almost floating in his grasp save for the very tip which seemed to yearn forward and down.  _Drâco_ wished to swing itself.  Lost in his amazement, Herrik sliced the blade gracefully through the air and felt yet another wave of serenity wash from head to toe, skin to bone, as he heard the delicate song of the vibrating blade.

            He took the blade through every formation he knew, beyond impressed at the unique but unquestionably perfect balance of the sword's weight.  But a few moves into it he realized that the whistle of the blade was not controlled by how swiftly he swung, but that it was actually singing, the sincere, soft melody of an ancient lullaby.  Two thousand years into the past that song had been sung by the mothers of the world's descendants and now once again with glory graced the good earth with vitality.  The young monster hunter of Onrac swung that sword until he giggled with delight, until he was singing loudly along with the soaring melody like a boisterous drunk.  So ridiculous it seemed from a distance that even the professor laughed heartily.  At long last, Herrik finally came down.

            "Beyond words, professor, it is truly beyond coherent words."  He took it again by tip and hilt and held it up to the professor as if showing off a discovery.  "Though, I must admit it is curious that you advise me towards caution and then give me a sword with which to slay dragons."

            "Just be sure to slay the dragon instead of trying to capture it, Herrik.  That's the caution.  I'm quite sure that a blade so fine will keep you safe, whatever choice you make, as long as your choice be for good."

            "Well, in that you can always trust me."

            "As I always have, my boy," said the professor with one final double pat on the back.  "As I always have."

            Then Herrik went back to his forms, moving in close to the caged tiger and laughing at the creature's dazed, frightful reaction to the blade.  And only yards away, watching with the mien of a goodly king, the old professor revered his knight.

********************

            By the time noon had come on the third day, with the sun perched in the gray sky amongst heavy funereal clouds, it seemed the countryside had set its will against the light warriors.  The combination of the balmy air, feeling of a sickly moisture as if the morning dew never drifted to the grass, and the quiet, torpid character of the adventurers had tarried their progress to a near crawl.  Coming into the northern country they were leaving the relatively lush grounds of inner-Corneria, and so they had found no place better than the dusty roadside to make camp.  Sleep was difficult and unsteady for all, and under the bitter memory of the tavern the night before, the day's road gave no absolve.  The only warranted condition of travel was the silence, a shadowy vow among them, they starved for no conversation; doubtless a key element in the waning rate of their march, with no one attempting to boost them forward, no talk of spirit.  Once the sun hung at three o'clock and the swamp-like, mushy heat of day was unbearable, the promise of an open tavern and a soft bed somewhere in the city of Jrist seemed just a dream.      

            Darrin Sylum led them, if for no other reason than it felt as if someone needed to be in front and none of the others was willing.  But regardless, once there he became territorial of the position, he wanted to be there.  Whenever they arrived at the distant Commerce City, he wanted to arrive first, if even by a few meager steps.  And pacing those steps next behind him were the young two, Seville and Edrick, whom in the face of such strange feelings realized that paramount was there friendship.  If something had been severed between Edrick and the Knight of the Coast over the events at the tavern, and Seville couldn't discern if it had, that something Seville would also have to question.  He liked the knight, how could you not?  But when times were down, even facing all his knowledge of the clergyman's bumbling disposition, he trusted Edrick.  They two were something special in this whole mess, Seville thought.  It was happening because of Professor Sylum, and because of Herrik Gipson it would succeed, but plain old Edrick and Seville would go down in the history books.  Somehow they were the ones that mattered.  

            Opposite his usual placement, Gipson trailed, and by more than a usual share of tracks.  The spires of his scarlet hair, the only thing that didn't seem to age, were allowed to hang low, unconsciously fitting his low demeanor.  So many things on his mind it seemed, but actually it was one thing that was spread over so many parts of his life.  So few masked as so many, but so real and comfortable and safe.  He'd fight it if he could or wanted to, fighting was all he knew how to do, but eventually, no matter the battle, things were going to change.  The priest, Edrick, or Good Edrick, as Gipson found himself calling the lad in his mind, had just as well shot an arrow through him, but he was happy to receive it.  Things have to change one day.  He thought of how hard life would be for him in the future, and he gripped the handle of a dull silver and blue sword sheathed around his belt, as one might put his hands in his pockets.

            Only the recession of the dark clouds just in time to allow the horizon to display its final chromatic flurry of reds and purples gifted the warriors enough cheer to continue when evening came.  The pace even quickened a little, finding they had plenty of energy for the circumstances and each of them secretly desiring at least some good effort for the day.  As the sunset settled into its fieriest hues, the light warriors even let out a group sigh, wondrously happy to see the large city of Jrist lying humbly on the horizon.  So they would make it after all, within the next hour if their newly freshened step held.  But, there was one more delay before the first leg of the _Lux Aeterna_ was done.

            A strange echoic popping sound surrounded them.  They each perked their ears and scanned the circle of their vision, uncertain of whether it came from the western forest or eastern sea.  The sound was pronouncedly crisp, but dark and heavy at the same time like an ogre clapping his claps, only sporadic, quick and slow, overlapping bursts.  The four men pooled together.

            "What is that?" Edrick stammered, worried.

            "The sound is foreign to me," said Gipson, and that couldn't be a good thing.  As they stood the sound continued its random occurrences, but the volume neither rose nor fell.  It was just a distant, stationary sound.

            "Master Gipson?" Seville said imploringly, to which the knight looked all around again and then became burdensomely still, feeling the movement of sound.  His demeanor was trance-like, near meditation.  But then just as quickly his eyes snapped open, and holding a sword firmly by the hilt, he said "This way!" and started jogging north along the line of the forest.

            The distance was not so far as the culprit noise made it seem.  Careening inward around an abrupt turn west along with the border of the wood, they were nearly plunged into a circular assembly of covered wagons, five from Gipson's immediate count.  Slowing and approaching the wide, wagon-enwrapped disc of grass all but the knight was jumping jerkily to each recurring pop, which at this distance was like a medium-pitched boom.  They sight before them as they passed between two of the wagons set them aback with mystery and wonderment.  

            Five traveling peddlers, by their clothes, and a half dozen in day clothes, likely from Jrist, stood in a natural enough gathering but all faced in the same direction, looking out through a wide gap of space that opened on the first woody pillars of the forest.  The two front men, both salesmen, lifted long, narrow contraptions up and held them firm to their shoulders, letting the long mouth of the things point to the trees.  There was a loud call of "_Ready!!!_" and instantly followed the shattering crack of noise.  Puffs of white smoke released from the cylindrical ends of the odd devices, and jagged splinters burst radially out from the tree trunks, all fast as magic!  So fast that a second shot came before the four light warriors had the least registered what happened.  After the third display of smoke, destruction, and alarm, the presumed residents of Jrist jumped into happy applause, talking now like a reverent mob.

            "Wonderful, wonderful!" the light warriors heard as they moved in closer, "This is gonna change the world!"

            "Change the world?" asked Gipson, skeptically.  

            The salesmen and townsmen wheeled around in surprise and though the people of Jrist stepped back and squinted questioningly, the peddlers instantly went into their act.

            "That's what you heard, sir," said a man in festive, magenta cloth, clearly now the leader of them, "And hardly could a truer thing be spoken."

            The salesman waved two of his helpers over; they brought the machines.  The Jrist-folk continued displaying their distrust of traveler's, but also showed in interest in hearing the pitch once more.  It must really be a fantastic product if it can draw people out of a town near evening.  

            "The roots of our marvelous product began to grow three _hundred_ years ago, a time pitting the fearless brawn of mighty Corneria against Elvish villains from the south.  'Twas the time for which we hold the festival occurring in the capital this very hour.  Unfortunately, the battle was turned sour by the Elves' dastardly weapon, the cannon.  And fortunately, times have moved passed that, but all is not safe."  The salesman was filled with hand motions like a magician feinting the audience before his spell.  "Once sewn fields have now fallen into ruin, prosperous sea merchants find themselves landed and grown old as the waves rage with peril, and the king himself has a daughter stolen away.  The world had become ensnared by chaos, and only those strong and prepared will survive to see the good times returned."

            He stopped there for a pause to let such dire words sink in; Gipson noted dully enough that the tradesman had enthralled the townsfolk once more.

            "We, good gentlemen travelers, provide that preparation, and though it may seem late in the coming, it is well early enough that yourselves are not yet considered late."

            "Why do salespeople always talk funny?" Seville thought to himself and shifted his weight.  

            "What do you sell?" asked Sylum, an endless buff for new things, but when he spoke Gipson sighed very quietly and walked around his companions so as to be in the back, vehemently disinterested.  Since the knight had been disinterested in everything that day, the group, beyond Seville of course, read no implication off the action and eagerly awaited the salesman's response.

            "Perhaps a demonstration will best prove our case, hm?" said the man in magenta cloth, waving to the others.

            "We saw your demonstration walking over," Gipson said.

            "Ah, but only so close can you respect the ease of the thing.  Presenting the Version One Single-Shot Hunting Rifle, or as we like to throw around the campfire, the Hand Cannon, and from loading to firing is less than twenty seconds."

            Next to the pitcher, the demonstrator cocked open the long shaft of the rifle and fed in a cylindrical iron pellet with a bead on the end, and then closed the thing back up.  He pulled back a switch near the trigger.

            "Ready, sir!" he called dramatically, as if it were some military display.

            "Pull, and fire at will!"

            The man thrust the rifle up to his shoulder and aimed into the trees, found his mark, and shot.  At this distance the report of the rifle was ear-splitting, everyone but the salesman and Gipson flinched.  Once the smoke had risen slightly into the air and begun to dissipate the man in magenta turned back.

            "Marvelous accuracy, marvelous power.  You could take down an elephant, or even an Anklo-beast with only two shots, maybe one if your sights are true.  All you need is the gun itself, a stock of ammo, and one of our patented cleaning kits , and in your hometown you will forever be acknowledged as Master Hunter.  And in dark times like these, when the enemy comes, you will show them power unlike what they have ever seen.  Now who could say they've no interest in such amazing science."

"Twenty seconds?!" Gipson broke in with a condescending sneer, "I could have loosed four arrows in that time, man."

"Indeed, your skills with the bow may be very considerable, but the arm of our rifle reaches far beyond the arm of any man and his archaic weapon.  Consider this, if you would…"

The leader waved once more to his partners, and one of them quickly loaded his rifle and faced off the opposite direction through another gap in the caravans.  He lifted the rifle to the ready position and aimed it at what seemed a tall metal canister set against the backdrop of sea.  There were five of the canisters, all in a row with the first on the left knocked over.

"They are filled with superheated water.  When the bullet strikes, it will pierce through and vent out a jet of steam, that will be proof of success."  The salesman looked rather hard at Gipson, almost a challenge.  "That mark is two-hundred and fifty feet away."

            The riflemen took time setting his aim, employing the most minor of adjustments, taking long enough that the spectators started noticing sounds like birds and the movement of the winds.  But finally, the man depressed the trigger, the booming pop came, smoke misted up into the air, and the second canister from the left sprayed steam out from its midsection and was thus propelled back.  The Jrist-folk instantly went into applause, and the lead peddler gave a content look to Gipson.

            "Imagine that kind of range on the battlefield, sir traveler."

            "Why imagine what I've already seen?" Gipson responded, taking down his bow and pulling out an arrow.

            "Your mad, man," said the salesman.

            "As is relying on powder that could burst in your face, step aside."

            The rifleman gave Gipson his room, and the grand red knight readied his shot.  It seemed he was taking the same care as the demonstrator, since the resonant snap of the bowstring did not come as quickly as in Gipson's usual style.  But he seemed more in thought than in a mind of target practice, and the predicted coarse of the arrow did not flux.  Ending a quiet moment holding everybody on a leash, Gipson lowered the bow and arrow, still looking to the distance.  A ridiculous shot of course, but knowing this man, Seville had little doubt of success, so he decided to break in.

            "Too difficult for you, Master Gipson?" he joked, and got an even better laugh within when he heard one of the further salesman whisper to his partner "Did he say _Gipson?_"  The knight turned.

            "Never, for me, Seville.  Too easy, that's all."  And then the knight used his smile for the first time all day and pulled out two more arrows.  

            Feeding them strongly between all fingers but his thumb, Gipson once more aimed his bow, now loaded with three arrows, off towards the canisters.  He made the pull quick, set the coarse, and released, as if he were aiming only twenty feet away.  Then came that majestic flight through the air, and the complimentary drama, the tongue-holding, breath-stopping awe of anticipation.  Something these rifles lacked.

            "My god," said the man in the festive clothing, "It looks that they will go over."

            "Not quite," Gipson retorted.  

            The lances of sky started a quick descent, and as they fell every set of eyes in view was for that moment tethered to the success of the shot.  Then they struck, and from the top of each standing canister came a feather-white up-shooting geyser of steam, so perfectly from the top that the pressure forced them down into the earth, but did not tip them either way.  

            "You did not knock them over?!" shouted one of the peddlers.

            "No, no, I felt the game needed some challenge," Gipson answered, "So I just nicked off the caps."

            "Splendid, Master Gipson, splendid!!!" Seville shouted happily.

            A joyful commotion rose up among the townspeople.  The clapped and hollered, and one young woman even called for an autograph.  The peddlers, however, were tense and paranoid, humbled.  They looked between each other, looking for one who could divert the shame, but none of them had a strategy.  The man in magenta especially seemed to melt back into the others and disappear from sight.  

            "And therefore, sir tradesman, we will have to decline your offer for today.  I'm all the cannon we'll need," Gipson said, and there started to walk out, almost as if to avoid the voluminous applause of admiration from the Jrist-folk.  Even if one of the other light warriors had truly wanted a gun, it wasn't doing to buy now.  They each gave a victorious smirk, and quickly followed after the extraordinary bowman.  

            When they caught up to his rabbit-like stride and tried to speak to him, anything from questions to simple congratulations, he gave meek answers and seemed little interested.  In fact, you'd almost think he was sad about the entire event, given the dark and empty stare that lead him forward.  They were confused by it; Edrick even was frightened by it.  He did not slow until the city was upon them, but then only tried to find an inn.  Whatever reason for the sudden haste, the light warriors at least felt that some of their loyalties had been re-sewn even if only weakly so.  They somewhat proudly followed the mysterious but great Herrik Gipson, master of all.

            An ethereal halo of purple was all that remained of the sunset, and the night's crickets had begun their serenade, but another melody hung on the air, quiet and motherly.  It was a calming progression of notes, serene and almost tender, sounding as if it were sung by some lady of the lake.  Like a siren song, it drew the tired Seville out from the edge-of-town inn, and he followed the sweet crescendos and vibratos to the grass-line just before the beach.  There he found Herrik Gipson sitting alone with his legs crossed and a book pulled before him.  Also he swayed a dim watery sword out before him, as gentle as it might sway in a breeze.  The weakly pulsing haze of aqua shining off the sword gave him just enough light to see.  Seville stopped a moment, considering going away, but since he had come within a hundred feet, the knight already knew he was there.

            "Come, come," Gipson said without turning towards, and Seville was greatly relieved to hear the friend in his voice.  He walked up quickly to where the knight sat, pressed scattered fragments of reed to the side, and sat next to him.  He noticed that the book before Gipson was one of the full-sized monsters manuals.  As he got comfortable, Gipson slammed shut the book and scooted it under him.

            "Ya know, I don't think it's normal for a sword to sing, you might want to get that checked," Seville said, and the old man chuckled appreciatively.

            "This song," and he rested a moment, letting a few bars of the melody pass, "This song was sung in the Ancient times, a simple lullaby.  The words, could _Dr__âco_ sing them, speak of little more than resting beds and gentle stars.  It was nothing to them, you see, just a song, not caring that it might be the most beautiful sound in this world over two-thousand years later."  

            Seville cast interested eyes, but found nothing to say at the moment.  Gipson continued to sway the blade and produce the poignant notes, but he talked openly to the young man sitting next to him, taking his free hand to annunciate further.  

            "The ancients, you see, were masters of knowledge and science, always making discoveries, inventing things, but they placed little precedence in ceremony.  Especially, they gave no value to the concept of age.  Well, what an odd concept.  This world relishes, cherishes its old, its old people, its old things, its old traditions.  And here I have the oldest sword in existence singing the oldest song in existence.  Can you even imagine such a thing?  Over two thousand years ago this blade was forged.  And to them, that would be nothing."

            "I hadn't taken you as a lore man." Seville said.

            "No, and you shouldn't, it's really not my field.  But certain things do draw my interest.  Old things, for instance."

            "Well, the world is filled with the past."  

            "But it's more than that, Seville, more than that," Gipson said and he spun himself towards Seville to speak more forwardly.  He let the sword down to the grass, but the singing continued, for at least a brief moment.  "The world is becoming the past.  Look at it!  The centennial, all those things filling the booths, or that ridiculous display today.  People are creating again, they've begun to discover things anew."

            "The better to the world then.  The ancients are a revered notion."  Seville was becoming excited by Gipson's oddly placed passion.  The knight was alight with interest, but skewed his words to make them sound more like a warning.

            "I suppose so.  But now the old will fade, like the Dragon Sword.  Its powers have waned for many years now, but even tonight I recognize the hue is weaker still.  Things now begin to change."

            Seville contemplated a moment, sad to hear such dark comments from a man he'd come to intimately respect.  At his last words the knight dropped his eyes down into the grass, like a child might when losing interest.  But the down-curved shape of his brow, something he'd never seen from Gipson, was a dire effect on the visage.

            "There is more on your mind, Master."

            "Many things, Seville, many things."  He looked up and traced the faded line of the sunset with his eyes, and then he turned to Seville and looked very deeply in.

            "How old do you think I am?" he asked, placing much wait on what Seville felt was a silly question.

            "What?"

            "How old do you think I am?  Seriously."

            Seville raised both hands to either side and shook his head questioningly.

            "I don't know.  I guess I'll go with the professor's choice, forty-five.  Seems close, I suppose."  To that Gipson laughed out loud, but not meanly, rather, self-approvingly.  It was such a self-fulfilling question.

            "I'm sixty-seven."

            "Impossible!"

            "I know I don't look it, and in fact, it doesn't even feel that way, but it's the truth." Gipson never told anybody his age, so what was normally so plain a detail caught Seville back like a strike to the chest.

            "There's … there's just no way!"

            "Thank you, I know I look good."  Gipson smiled warmly, "The hair, especially, should have grayed by now.  But my bones are old, and my mind is old."

            "How's that?  You've got crisper reflexes than anyone I've known, and your hearing is beyond challenge."  

            "Hunter's training, Seville, that's all.  And now my training will prove worthless because the new age is going to forget about me."

            Seville, still wracking his brain to discern the old man within the fit knight before him, hated to hear such talk.

            "I don't think this age or any age will soon forget the coming of the light warriors, Master Gipson."

            "Light warriors?" Gipson asked distantly, studying the white tides with his eyes, "I'm not so sure about all of this, Seville.  That vibe I had two mornings back is gone now.  We're walking into a trap, I guarantee you."

            Seville suddenly became very frightened, shaking at the portentous thoughts.

            "Then we will stop!"

            "No, we won't stop.  We will continue, if we have faith in the good doctor.  And I know you have more faith than me."

            "Professor Sylum doesn't know anything about adventures, he gets everything out of books!"

            "But he believes what he gets out of those books.  And I'm ready to trust someone with their beliefs."

            "How do you mean?" said Seville, energetic and fearful.  His neck was craned inwards and he hung on every dire word of the knight, but Gipson did not respond immediately.  He let things settle a little.  'How do you mean, Master Gipson?"

            "You will have to keep my age a secret from the others, Seville.  That's what I mean.  It's an act.  Everything's an act."

            "Hiding your age, especially in so odd a case, is nothing to lament."

            "But it's _all_ an act.  The sales pitch I do at the festivals for this damned book," Gipson pulled out the Monsters Manual and threw it away into a high patch of grass, "Or the battle displays.  Those rifle salesmen, just an act for them.  And you Seville, that little display of yours last night was quite the act.  It's all an act.  And it's not gonna last, Seville, it's not gonna last.  Eventually, the act you put on will go out of style, and it hurts!"

            Seville was almost brought to tears, and such emotional weakness angered him.  But the great knight's voice was so final, piercing and infinite.

            "What has brought this on?"

            "Just, everything.  Those contraptions selling over in the field, today.  Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous.  But, that's where things are headed.  They will sell; they will become popular, and in a decade nobody will even know what a bow is.  I'm surprised it didn't come sooner."

            "But you reminded at least a dozen people of just what a bow is today.  They won't forget.  The world is not ending, Master Knight."  Seville grabbed Gipson by the shoulder and spoke loudly, and the knight responded acceptingly.

            "Not for all of us!"

            "Not for you!  You are _the_ Herrik Gipson, the most renowned hunter of all time."

            "But it came at a price, Seville, it came at a price."

            "What do you mean by these thoughts?!"  Seville was frantic.

            "I want to give you advice by them, something I've just figured out for myself today."

            "Advice?"

            "You must learn how to change.  Not today if you don't want, I can't chide anyone for taking the easy road, but someday you must learn to change.  So that when the world asks it of you, you can do it.  I always took the easy road, did what I knew to do to make people like me, and just stuck to it for so long.  Never growing."

            "Your road was not easy, it was filled with danger, it's all recorded in your book.  How can you look away from that?  It's vulgar to cast away what people love you for."

            Gipson chose another moment to rest from the conversation, and once more Seville could tell that the fragile thoughts were aching in the knight's mind, screaming to get out, but he wouldn't let them.  Gipson then turned back towards the shoreline, no longer facing Seville, and pulled out the miniature book tied to his belt.

            "My age is not the least comparable to the secret I keep for you, I should tell you a larger one," Gipson said slowly, with much thought on his choice of words.  "This book, and others like it, the dragon one, the elemental one … I didn't write them."

            "But…"

            "You asked me how I ever wrote a book, that night at your godfather's tavern."

            "I didn't mean to insult … or … I was just…" Seville just didn't know what to say.

            "And the answer is I didn't.  I have a ghost writer, he's a very good friend named Maddox."

            "But do you lie about the within."

            "No, of course not.  The information is true, just the presentation is false.  Only one thing in here is mine."  Gipson flipped open the small book and turned to a page.

            "What's that?"  Seville found himself more interested in this small piece of information than in the secret he had just learned.  Given a few moments for it to sink in he wasn't that surprised.  Gipson never did strike him as a writer; it never did seem to fit.

            "One sketch, and just this one."

            "Sabertooth Tiger?" Seville looked up with a confused brow.

            "My favorite monster."  Gipson tried his best to smile, but it was little more than a weak grin.

            "Well, I don't look down upon you for it.  How could I?  You've got over a foot on me."  And Gipson chuckled to that.

            "No, only I look down upon me for it.  It's probably the last chance I had to change my life and do something greater with it, but I didn't because I wasn't ready.  So just learn to change, Seville, and avoid a pain you can't imagine."  Gipson seemed to be finished this, tired of talking and venting.  But Seville finally had something he could respond to.

            "I know pain, Master Gipson."  Seville lifted his right sleeve and revealed the ghost rot inflicted arm, the sores glowing the odd shade of dim purple they always did in the twilight.  "And if this is any indication, I may have no more time than you to learn."

            Gipson sighed heavily.  Not for a single second on the three days of journey thus far had he forgotten about the rot, even when it seemed the others had.  Only when Sylum gave Seville his dosage of medicine was it ever brought up.

            "How is it?" he asked, sounding wise.

            "No pain yet.  Professor Sylum's medicine is very good.  But I am still afraid of it."

            "That's good.  It shows your mind is still where it should be."

            "You've been very protective of me."

            "You've been wise enough to allow it.  I can protect you from monsters, but I can't protect you from the world."

            "Change, again?"  Seville asked, slightly wishing the topic would drift away.

            "Change.  If we've both no time left, then we will make our last stand together, and my first charge will be to put faith in the professor, after all, we can't prove that he's lead us astray, and the journey is young."

            A sudden warning called back to Seville, and under his breath he said, "I would rather you trust in Edrick."

            "What's that?"

            "Oh, nothing … just thinking of bad dreams."

            "Well, stop, you don't want to give yourself another one."

            And there the conversation really did halt for along time.  For at least half an hour they sat and let the stars open their eyelids so they could glow down onto the sparking ocean.  The soothing sound of the waves made them docile, and though the night had contained talk of dire things, they allowed themselves to become comfortable, drifting with the ocean jostle.  The night had assumed it full crystalline grandeur by the time either of them moved, and it was Gipson, who chose to rearm fearsome _Dr__âco_ and once more fill the air with beauteous song.  The blade seemed to know that the air was quiet, so it dropped its volume as if not to disturb the sleeping life.  If Seville had ever known his mother, he liked to imagine she would have sung such a melody to him in the cradle.  Voice now filled with friendly, humorous fervor, Gipson spoke.

            "Ya know, if you can get your mind out of legend, this is the greatest sword in the entire world."  He smiled.

            "Out of legend, Herrik?"  It was often dangerous to call a knight by his first name, but finally it felt right and necessary.  

            "Well, the Dragon Sword can only be bested by a legendary sword," Gipson said to which the young man looked towards intently.  "Excalibur, Sword of the King.  I don't know which king, and since it cannot be forged without a substance no longer on this planet, I'd say it's a safe bet that mine is the best."

            "You're the best for a lot of reasons, knight, I'm sure the sword just goes with package.  But can I ask you something?"

            "Of course."

            "Your ghost writer, Maddox?  He's not … ya know … really a ghost is he?"

            Gipson discovered anew that smile he used to push heckler's out of a crowd and said, "Come now, you must let an old man keep some of his secrets."

            "But…"

            And over the many repetitions of the ancient lullaby the two men, forty-seven years apart, laughed and joked about each of their own adventures.  There for a moment, lost in a past filled with so much happiness, they stopped worrying about change's coming.  Among your friends, there is no time left for the great design of things.


	9. The Scoop

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 9 ~ The Scoop

            Though the second largest city on the Cornerian strip, as they called the long narrow gash of land isolated by the two mountains, and a port city at that, the town of Jrist was of a subdued complexion on the fourth morning of the great quest.  Indeed, the urban pallor was that of a ghost town, with only the occasional traveler making his or her way across the empty market.  Certainly, people didn't seem to want to be outside very much.  It wasn't a standard market day, but still the harbor was filled to capacity, the sailors and merchants packed away in waterside stay-houses, none of them peddling as the horizon filled with light as one would expect.  Once brave seamen no longer risked the sea; the waves grew treacherous just a hundred yards from the shore.  The suffocation of the harbor town brought into quick realization the growing pain of Corneria, and likely the world; the land-locked vacuum that not so slowly choked away the life.  Since the surrounding lands weren't filled with farms, Jrist had maintained its spirits a good while longer than the agrarian southerners, but now tempestuous oceans had finally brought them to the current state of things.  A dead market; a sullen people.

            Unbeknownst to the great majority of the world though, was the existence of its rescue mission.  When all the world reeked of a new emptiness, the light warriors finally felt the pressure of their quest, the singular perspective they possessed.  It was finally hitting home.  This was their responsibility, whether they asked for it or not.  Regardless of whatever amends were made the day before by at least two of the warriors, their waking hours were filled with dark awareness of the nature of things.  Anger seemed to build out of nowhere.  Mistrust.  Paranoia.  Once again amongst scores of people, if ever they came out of their homes, the light warriors felt tense and defensive, the episode of two nights past still fresh on their memory (and possibly their record).  And in one of the few places where people did know of their great quest, the sacrifice of life's prosperity to the world's survival, the prospects of their reception were gloom.

            Among the few open businesses early that morning, maybe the only place with something new to sell, was the news stand.  And sitting front and center in the largest rack was a tall stack of the day's copy of the Corneria Chronicle, hailing as its cover story a grim message.

_The Trite Warriors_

_Charles Domino, Senior Editorial Correspondent_

_Does an illusionist exiting the stage before a sonorous crowd not return for his encore?  Do the players of some valorous game visit the stadium only to greet and withdraw?  Does the politician cite vacuous asseverations only to master his throne and sulk?_

_No.  No.  And yes.  But even more exigent, diligent reader, is the despondent state of our so-called Light Warriors.  On the eve of their glorious ascension they were granted appreciable leave to, we can only postulate, draft extensive means by which to procure their most humble ends.  But when came the next morning, the impassioned folk of Corneria and their festival tourists received not noble speeches of hope and joy, not the assuring succor of well-laid plans, not even the respectful ceremony of auspicious farewell, only the news that the Lux had escaped early into the wilderness.  Perhaps they were just eager to affront the great quest, their rich spirits prompting them forward.  Or perhaps their brainstorm came up barren, and they rushed out, without plan or direction, to avoid their shame.  The track record I will soon account leaves only one of these options realistic._

_But first let's break down just what we're talking about, since a survey conducted in Corneria yesterday shows that only 15% of people have heard of the presently evoked legend.  Dan Haroldson, 42, resident of outer-Corneria, sums up the average affirmative interpretation:  "Yeah, I've heard of that, you see, four warriors, each with some magic orb, go off and save a princess…"  Unfortunately, this is far from the truth._

_Based on the controversial translation of a short Leifen, or Ancient, script by Professor Ted Unne, the entirety of the "_Lux Aeterna_" reads:_

_"_When the world is in darkness,

Four Warriors will come..._"_

_Controversial because Professor Unne, most senior member of the century-spanning line of Doctor Unne's that continues even today, was equally famed for his extravagant love affairs with ale and women.  Though the history of the legend is almost entirely unwritten, scholars speculate that the myth of four elemental orbs entered the lore over two hundred years after the _Lux's_ original transcription.  As stated by lore scholar Bently Housend of the Corneria College History Department, "The elves, you see, the elves have always loved stories about magical ornaments, and I've found just in this last year several sources providing information on a tale about four orbs containing elemental powers that were used to keep four respective mythical monsters at bay.  No doubt some historian unearthed the story and felt it looked good when combined with the Lux Aeterna; but likely they have nothing to do with each other."_

_In _Words of the Ancients_¸ the current Dr. Theodore Unne reveals, "The exact words of the Lux Aeterna were vague enough to lend themselves to modern variations, but the particular disparity of elemental orbs is utterly ridiculous, one because the Leifen texts make no mention of them, and two because the Ancients did not believe in magic."_

_Any logical mind should then discard any telling of the Lux containing magical orbs as one would discard a tall-tale.  That the primary antecedent of the King's Lux exaltation is the supposed discovery of these orbs lends little credit to our heroes._

_The inclusion of a Princess-saving plot is more deeply rooted in an analytical phenomenon known as the recency effect, whereby the mind associates the most recent, and therefore most urgent, discoveries with all other current situations.  In this case, the present disappearance of our fair princess lends itself only too well to the first chosen goal of the Warriors.  Via the recency effect, the two events are combined into a single thought.  Of course, without conferring to the text of the legend itself, this elucidates that the savior of any person, Princess or no, has nothing to do with the _Lux Aeterna_. _

_But even if their proof be nugatory, can the Light Warriors still claim valid purpose?  After all, their number is right, and all the legend requires is a world in darkness.  So, is it in darkness?  Of this there can be little doubt._

Land-locked in our town of Jrist, a successful merchantman who goes only by Bikke comments, "Well, I can't speak for much but I'll tell you that the seas have turned nasty over the recent months, even in this past week they've started turning harder and harder.  The bravest captain on the ocean wouldn't take his lady out these days."  Henry Black, a leading Jrist Union organizer, shares a similar sentiment, "After twenty-three years of up-and-up, we have in just the last six months experienced high percentile decreases in membership application and re-application and also productivity, while oppositely showing high percentile increases in unemployment, job termination, and pattern downsizing.  The job market has truly gone to hell."  The omens stretch beyond the human sector.  The Ecological Society, based out of Corneria city, has listed several recent studies noting increasingly aberrant weather patterns including the severe diminishing of warm air currents from the Western sea and ocean tides measuring highs of up to six feet higher than recorded averages.  Another of the studies even mentions a shift in behavioral qualities among several local animals, suggesting an increase in "ferocity" and "cunning".  That study went on to list several startling statistics, among them a 26% increase in animal assault cases over the past three months.

It seems indeed the globe has taken a malevolent turn.  So it is not surprising that these four men lost in the wilderness are believed as Light Warriors, nor is it surprising that several rather competitive Light Warrior fan clubs have spawned in the festival city, but for the sake of the country's mental health I must report my findings in regards to these four men.  They are not our saviors, they are not heroes, and they are most certainly not the Light Warriors.

Who I must assume is their leader, although the structure within this group compares its solidity to a ball of cotton, is Dr. Darrin Sylum, mid-thirties, a political science professor at Corneria College.  What place he has on a no-doubt battle-saturated quest is beyond me, but his diplomatic skills, in my first meeting with him, did prove competent, at least for the part.  The strong arm of the group, the famous Herrik Gipson, clearly looking to pad his résumé even further, does possess those physical skills he's famous for, but in person is standoffish, even rude.  He in no way personifies the grace and benignity of a world savior.  To attempt to keep their image true, they have enlisted a healer, an apprentice clergyman named Edrick Valance, who did not speak at our first meeting, and, by witness of several Cornerians, has the magical skills of a pile of dung.  May bad fortune never fall their way that it should be dependent on Valance to remedy.  And the final of the four, a twenty year-old who spent time in jail just moments before his divine unveiling, mysteriously goes only by Seville.  For the whole of my interview he offered only one brutish, uncivil word, something characteristic of the iniquity inherent in avid prison-goers.  

It doesn't paint a faithful portrait of the warriors of Lux, at least not in my mind or in the mind of anyone else I interviewed over the past two days in Corneria and Jrist.  But legends can work in mysterious ways, so only an account of their work can truly gauge whether or not we should put our eggs in this basket.  For this, diligent reader, I have spent time following the warriors and have spent even more time asking around their various stops to bring you the facts, no matter how lamentable.

My first and only meeting with the warriors, which I've before now invoked as "the interview", was begun ever so comfortably with the iron-grip of Mr. Gipson propelling me face-forward into the dirt.  What followed was not an interview but in actuality a brief exchange of intelligent words summarily proceeded by a bout of verbal parrying.  Upon making my intentions clear, the roguish band decided it better to assault me than delegate to my stead their no doubt just word to here deliver.  Because our meeting went so in the way of laconic, I was unable to ascertain whether or not calling me an "Asshole" was the message they wanted percolated through the people.  I'd hope not, but they seemed rather proud of it.

So, respecting their legend-mandated wishes, I held back and chose to follow their tracks rather than be there for the making.  This brought me to a small traveler's inn, called the "Way-House", where the tender had quite an ominous tale to tell, events starring our subjects and the previous night.

That night three of our warriors joined a lucrative card game with three indefinitely anchored seafarers that frequented the pub.  At least attempting to keep to their roles, the clergyman, Valance, opted not to play.  Lookers-on attest that the money flow was unusually, even "supernaturally" as a witness put it, one-sided.  As holds with common travel-stop traditions, a request was made by one of the seaman of the warrior named Seville to "Sleeves up", an accusation of foul-play.  Stated by Marcon Sunders, the bartender, "Now that boy didn't want to do it, and even his priest friend, who'd spent most the time in the shadows stood up for him, but [Seville] finally came up with his sleeves.  And his arms were covered from top to bottom in the most awful sickness you've ever seen.  Bruises and scars, unnatural things."

Based on similar accounts by other witnesses of the night, my research led me to Dr. Friedrich Brazer, once again of Corneria College, a doctor of lore and science, "The symptoms sound like an MOS (that's Multiple Overdose Syndrome) of a beat narcotic called 'Soft'.  It has certain medicinal uses but is without doubt a controlled substance.  The sensations are intense and long lasting, but abuse commonly leads to black welts along the extremities as you describe them and eventually catatonia."

But the revelation of one of our warriors as a drug-addict does not end the night's woes.  Finally convinced of fair-play, the three seamen left the pub, and within the minute Seville announced to the whole place that he had indeed been cheating.  When the seafarers returned to rectify their abuse, Mr. Gipson, blood-lusting grunt that he is, killed all three of them before a gentleman's word could be spoken.  Realizing they could accomplish no more good that night, they ventured out and have yet to show again.

And so the query: does this sound like the people we want to call the light warriors?  Do we have any reason to believe these four men?  They certainly haven't put on a convincing show, they certainly haven't provided any good, and they certainly don't know what they're going to do about saving the princess.  I object to these inane clubs brewing in the capital spouting misplaced hope after misplaced cry for these actors, these fakes, these rogues.  They are not legendary heroes, but counterfeit idols playing a ridiculous popularity stunt at the sake of a nation's hopes.  All their purpose for being is based on false notions and even in carrying out those notions they present themselves as brash warmongers.  The hailing of these men as Light Warriors needs to cease.  A tough tale for true believers, but believing that it will rain gold doesn't mean it's going to happen.  They are no reserve for our faith, and they can fool the people of Corneria no more.  If they should come to Jrist on their aimless journey, they'll know where to find me.

            "I'm gonna kill'em!" Seville exasperated, crumpling the off-white paper and slamming it onto the flat counter, "We've got to kill'em!"

            "Gently, son!" shot back the man behind the news stand, jumping off his high stool to restack the towers that Seville's slam had toppled.  Seville snorted and threw a silver coin onto the counter, and it skidded forward and off into the debris of the papers.

            "Can it!" the boy yelled back and turned away from the booth.  Edrick Valance jaggedly pumped into motion and followed him with a stomp.  After a heavy, thoughtful sigh, Herrik Gipson folded up his copy of the paper delicately and handed it back to the news man.

            "Much obliged," the knight said, and he ran his fingers through his tall hair.  Dr. Sylum absent-mindedly rolled the page, put down a silver round, and walked off with his eyes tethered to the cobblestone.            

            Seville's exclamations led them past several closed stands and around a corner into an alley as deserted as any other part of the city.  Only fragile arches of the early morning sun stretched into the road and the resulting slivers of shadow made their skin gray, golem-like, and streaked as with rained down war-paint.  The air was quiet, the town was quiet, every breath that escaped them felt urgent, a spirit rushing past and lifting the wind.  The thick, leathery skin of their valiant pretense slid down and sagged like a zombie's flesh, leaving show their vitals, their vulnerability.  Every passing inch of waking minutes and the belly-hot fear of accusing eyes surrounding were sharp teeth that punctured the organs, the pressure points, the weakness.  It was suffocation in an un-motherly cradle.

            Seville rounded and then walked to the stone wall of the building, slapped it, and turned and grimaced.  His chest heaved with an uncommon anger, which from there bore into instant fatigue.  

            "We're screwed!" he said, with a furious shake of the head.

            "Calm down," Edrick said.

            "But we're screwed!  How can he do that to us?"  Seville paced unevenly, and slapped the wall again.  "We've got to kill'em!  He as much as invited us to at the end of the column."

            "Seville, clam down," the priest said once more, keeping his distance from the angry twenty-year old.

            "Of course you'd say that, he didn't mention shit about you that the world didn't already know."

            Edrick dropped his once receiving arms and went to stand next to the others.  Gipson had just arrived and was pressing his keen eye onto Seville, but Dr. Sylum kept his glance way-wards, a non-committal stare.

            "I don't think anybody is arguing that it isn't bad for us, but..."

            "He called me a drug addict, Eddie!"

            "And do you think throwing a coin at a shop-keep and stomping off in a tantrum is going to better that image?"  Edrick persisted.

            "Well, it's not making it any worse.  What the hell are we supposed to do?  He's gonna have all of the Corneria set against us.  We're gonna be a laughing stock!"

            "Quiet!" Gipson suddenly said with rounded force.  He lifted a hand forward, as if to command one to his knees.  "If someone were watching this very moment what impression would they get?"

            Seville snorted again, "A bunch of unorganized hacks!"

            "Right!  Not Light Warriors, for sure."

            "When you told me you were raising your faith," Seville yelled at the knight, "I missed where you told me it was going to Domino."

            "Understand something, Seville.  My experience in this realm doesn't really include the negative, but beyond a few of his more spiteful statements, Domino is basically telling the truth."

            "And how commendable of him for doing that!" Seville shouted sarcastically.  He paced in incessant circles.

            "And how does this help?" Edrick joined the shouting, and then he looked to each end of the alley quickly.

            "It doesn't." Gipson said, reigning in his voice to a low but weighty level.

            "So what'll you have us do?  Disappear back into the woods and slip further into rejection?"

            "It's not so bad as that," Edrick said.  "It's a stupid newspaper article.  An editorial!  We'll just get back on with our mission!"

            "Our mission?!  What mission?  We're not gonna rescue any princess just walking around, there's no reason that we would.  Light Warriors aren't destined to do anything like that."

            "What for, Seville?  This you already knew but you didn't doubt it then."  Gipson tried to be calm.  "None of us understands our role, so we can only do what we think is right."

            "And get pissed on for it?!" the rogue screamed.

            "If that's what it takes." Gipson said.

            "Seville," Edrick broke in, "You know that Domino is not altogether wrong.  You cannot be surprised, so why this anger in you?"

            "Because…" and Seville stopped walking, and let his chest slowly ease its pounding.  His fists unclenched and for a moment it seemed he would calm.  But then just as quickly he threw his arms out in anger, went to the side of the alley, and kicked the stone wall of the building.  "Because it's my fault!  Because I'm the one who screws things up.  I'm the one who just got out of jail.  I'm the one with the sores all over his arm.  I'm the one who cheated at the poker game.  I'm the one who provoked Smythe into his attack.  It's my fault!  Because everybody's failing on my account."

            Seville fell down into a crouch and forced his forehead down into his palm, scruffing his hair with the free hand.  Then he began to shake his head angrily.  He looked much like a bum long out of his wits.

           Herrik Gipson slid the steeples of his kept red hair through the gaps of his fingers several times and squeezed his chin, covered with three days growth.  He suddenly felt himself getting furious, and he wanted to fight it back for the sake of this group.  This young boy with so much potential, so like himself, giving up.  Any advice he would want to give was going to come out like a scolding.  He tried.

            "Seville, your problems are small, and you can reverse them in an instant.  But I'm the … I'm the one who has murder on his record.  So you are not going to take all of this blame for something I was too foolish to avoid."

            "Murder?" Edrick said, speaking frantically with his high boyish voice raised to even higher registers.  He shook with nerve.  "So now it's murder?  But at the time it was something else, right?"    

            "Edrick, you do not want to press me on this point!"

           "It's my job to press you on this point.  That's all it is.  Thieves and murderers.  We're no warriors, we're no saviors, we're no destined heroes.  I shouldn't have come with you; I never should have done this."  
            "Eddie, shut up.  You're part is clean."  Seville's voice was weak, and he spoke like a dark child in a corner.

            "It's not clean, Seville, you know nothing about my oath, my responsibilities.  And now I've consorted with Gipson the killer, and you Seville, you've been breaking my conscience for years."

            "Then why stay?  Go home, if that's how you feel!"

            "I stay because I'd never survive the trip home.  Because I'm useless, I can't even keep people I would call my friends on the right track.  That's my part, Seville, that's my part.  Nothing."  Edrick shook all over, he had to walk to the wall and press against it to soothe the sickening bursting within his chest.  "And I can't go back to the church, now, my oath has been broken.  And when they get the paper in Corneria the minister is going to find out, and you know what little life is left for a clergyman who has broken with the church."

            "So," Seville said, now dipping into the black, hateful shade of depression, "It is over then."

            "Over." Edrick said, "Unless one of us would like to go alone.  Like the … professor…"

            All three of them turned to find the doctor Darrin Sylum facing away from their combat, looking aimlessly down the alleyway and into the jutting mesh of market booths and carts.  For the entire time he'd made no mention of his presence, made no sound to call attraction his way.  Even at the mention of his title then he did not turn, or nudge, or show any acknowledgement of awareness.  He leaned against the opposite wall, and from where they stood they could see only a patch of his brown hair above the high rim of his maroon cloak and under the brim of his steepled-hat, and a metallic sliver of glasses frame curving around his face.  His stare, or at least what they could feel of it from behind him, was treacherously distant.

            "Professor?" Edrick managed to pick up his thought, "Professor, you've not said a word."

            They were unable to tell whether or not Dr. Sylum had heard Edrick.  He again seemed to take no notice.  Once more the ghostly quiet of the town set in upon them, the incredible death of the wind placing an awful stagnation on their skin.  They waited for Sylum to speak, if he would at all.  After an almost nauseating pause, he did, his voice plain and normal, but he did not turn toward.

            "You're right, Seville, we're screwed," he said.  "But it's not over."  And Sylum walked down to the end of the alley and turned the corner.

            A silence followed.  Edrick made two steps to follow, but Gipson held him back, and Seville maintained his seat on the cobbled ground, now picking up loose rocks and chucking them into the wall.  The knight and priest turned towards the thief, and then just stood and breathed, but for once looked amongst each other without squinted and calculating eyes.  For a brief moment they had understood how light the weight of their responsibility was, having then compared it to the weight of denying that mission.  Over was a terrible word, a fearful word, but it wasn't, was it?

            "Yeah, well..." Seville said as he pushed himself to his feet, "Whatever the hell that means!"

            He threw one more rock into the gray stone and left the alleyway, turning opposite the professor.

            "Master Gipson?" the priest said.

            "I don't know, Edrick.  I don't know."  Nothing was certain.

********************

            Like a million beetles over your skin ... some that bite and burrow within ... and choke and drown on all the sin...

            That's what it felt like; like an invasion of bugs that set up camp in his arteries and bones and chewed the marrow for sustenance.  Like the heart in his chest was replaced by a bubbling witch's cauldron that tipped and let the poison flow down.  Like every hair and organ of his body was turning undead one by one.  It felt like his eyes were too big for his sockets, and that the soft sides of the orbs were pushing into his brain, making it sting.  And that sting made him dizzy, the road tossed like a ship's deck.  His feet were dead weights, his legs dead weights, his arms dead weights.  It felt like anger.  A scared and scary anger.  Sylum could barely bring himself to the newsstand without collapsing and giving patronage to the palpitating ugliness growing in him.  It flared like the heat of a grease fire splashed with water every time he looked at the disgusting page.  One sentence.  He got one sentence.  He was more nothing than Edrick, more nothing than any of them.  Not even worth the time of a pundit.  While each of them moved to whatever great or gruesome end, he was moving towards nothing.  For five years his name was synonymous with hack, his unpopularity in the capital city was common public mention.  And his path to greatness didn't just lead him wrong, it lead him nowhere.  He was nothing in this thing.  That short name, preceded by the worthless title, Dr. Darrin Sylum, burned out of the page and seemed to glow an intriguing white.  But all around was covered in red.  He realized then it was getting away from him, and that's why he turned ugly.

            Sylum placed twenty silver coins on the counter.

            "I'll just ..." his voice was barely audible.  "I'll just take this many."  He pulled up a stack of twenty papers and turned to walk away.  The news man said nothing, just scooped up the coins and placed them below.

            "This princess is in the Temple of Fiends." Sylum turned to find the source of the voice, and instead of one found two men, one short, one tall, coming around the side of the booth.  They grabbed Sylum, weak with emotion and turmoil, and pulled him behind the stand.  The doctor did not even yelp.

            "What did you say?" Sylum said, dropping the stack of papers onto the cold cobbles.  

            "Think about it," said the tall one, who by his voice also spoke earlier, "Where else on the strip could you hide that kind of VIP without getting caught immediately?  Where but a castle that only exists in myth?  You can find it you know, but you have to go through the forest, and the paths are overgrown.  At the end of the trail you will find a castle, broken down and half demolished, that will be the Temple of Fiends.  You've heard of it before."

            "Of course, but..."

            "Just go, that's where they're keeping her.  Do you want this to be the final article of the Light Warriors?"  The tall man pointed at the single paper that Sylum had managed to keep in his grasp.

            "But ... how can I ... who are you?"

            "The name's Biggs, this is Wedge.  We support you, we just wanted to help."

            "But..."

            "Stop stammering!  You're the diplomat for God's sakes.  Just find the Temple of Fiends, alright?"

            Biggs and Wedge left Sylum standing there between two booths with a messy stack of newspapers at his feet, confused and disturbed.  He let the last paper drop from his childish grasp, the new sickness within him seething afresh.  Biggs and Wedge?

            Edrick and Gipson had finally followed Seville out of the alley and into the nearest stone building which happened to be a tavern.  They rested there, speechless and happy with that fact.  Seville rolled a coaster back and forth across a table, Edrick read from one of Gipson's Monsters Manuals, and the knight himself just drifted his eyes stoically into the wall.  They all faced generally inward, but not close together.  The tavern was empty but for them and the bartender, who, clearly surprised to have people in his establishment so early, had come forward and kept a careful eye.  After a few moments of nothing the barkeep went back to his lazy business, reading the day's newspaper.  Whether he put a connection together or not didn't seem to matter.  The three Light Warriors made no sign of moving without provocation.  The blue depression of each hampered the whole room.  They each of them including the knight jumped when the tavern door kicked forward quickly.  Sylum walked in.

            "We're going.  Now!" he said, and walked back out.  

            Like trained dogs the three of them rose silently and began their dull march out.  They followed Sylum to the edge of town and then into an overbearing forest.  It had a foul look, but so did everything behind.  They ran closely at the heels of their good professor, the only one of them still clinging to faith.  But unknown to them, that faith was darker than chaos itself.

105    


	10. A Mending of Ways Pt 1

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book One ~ The Meager

Chapter 10 ~ A Mending of Ways Pt. 1

            The professor led them out of the gaunt, heartless berg of Jrist, and into the heart of darkness.  The immense forest, that cupped the harbor town like hands do water against the sea, was inconceivably thick with steeple-tall trees, whose vines swooped low at the warriors' knees and feet, as might leather whips.  And the monstrous branches, most of them battering ram thick, jutted low off the trunk and writhed like broken arms, and they were covered in a silken, hanging moss of a dismal green, that made their step perilous whenever the warriors had to climb upon and over them.  As the hairline trail of flattened dirt diminished to a narrow tawny strand of a path, the spears and levers of old wood completely dominated the sight.  The trees all around were prison bars, and the branches the cross thatches.

            Seville, holding the middle ground with Edrick, tried once to climb a few branches upwards and pinpoint their path, but two branches up the trees started to run with an off-green, gelatinous sap.  Accidentally squeezing the substance into his hand after an unsteady move from limb to limb, the slathers quickly set hard on his skin, and he finally had to chip the stuff away with the point of his dagger.  

            "Not the path I would have chosen," he then said, to no particular response.  He didn't bother mentioning that it took over half of an hour for the feeling to course back into his fingers.  

            As they deepened into the woods the body of their vision seemed to sway in a preternatural motion, all the vines and foliage swept up in a light breeze they couldn't feel on their skin.  Far into the lair of such menacing density, it would seem unnatural that any wind could penetrate.  To the contrary, it was uncomfortably moist and stagnant, like a jungle climate very familiar to Herrik Gipson, but uncommon if not impossible on the Cornerian Strip.

            Any accounts of a discernable trail long past them, it looked like everything around them was pulsing, as if they stood on the heaving chest of some sleeping beast, and if only subconsciously they had walked whisper-quiet in hopes of not waking it.  But that quiet, that patience, hinging on the will of discontented individuals, only brought them to a point.

            "We're lost!" Seville said, forcibly enough to demand attention.  "We've _been_ lost.  For hours!"            

            The leading Dr. Darrin Sylum hedged on stronger, without any nod, and as such the other two followed.

            "We have no idea where we're going.  Scratch that, we can't know where we're going, because there's nowhere for us to go.  And I don't mean to interject in this little gloom march we're having, but since we're just heading towards nowhere anyways, we probably could have chosen a better way to get there."

            By now Seville was deliberately aiming his voice at the professor a few feet before the rest of them.  Early that morning he might have been thankful for a release from the paralytic funk of their argument, but now any appreciation of that antidote as given by Sylum had been lost, even as quickly as the light warriors in the dark forest.

            "I've always been one for hikes featuring short stints of potentially neck-breaking acrobatics, and I dig being able to drink water from the air and everything."  

They finished a treacherous and unsteady crawl over a mountainous rise of overlaying tree branches, and faced a long downhill dip into blacker forest.  Without any kind of provocative hesitation they continued into it.  Their feet moved over dead bark, wood, leaves, and thick rotting vines.  All signs of a trail were shrouded in vegetation.  

The beams of the sun completely choked away as they advanced into the deeper forest, and without its light, the progress of the warriors was greatly hampered.  They had nothing to see by but the dim columns of white gold finishing as hazy circles on the retched tree trunks, a light produced from four of the small wooden _flashlights_ that Seville had, now quite thankfully, taken along.

"And you know, scraping off killer tree sap is somewhat of a hobby of mine.  But I greatly recommend we at least try to start heading back.  I mean, there's no trail, we have no idea what direction we're going.  And the sun doesn't seem to come down this far anymore, so we've got no idea what time of day it is."

"It's about fifteen minutes past twelve," Gipson finally responded, "And we're heading generally northwest."

Seville looked around as if the knight was reading it off a sign, "How do you know that?  You can't know that?"

"Have you learned nothing yet, Seville?" Gipson asked.

"What?" said Seville.

"I know everything.  I'm amazing."  But Gipson didn't follow it with his characteristic chuckle, or bend it positively with one of his practiced smiles; just craned his head up to look for some kind of existing trail and then resumed the sulky march as if nothing had passed.

But to the rogue, it seemed something had passed.

"Then you know where we're going?  And how to get there?"

"I know we are going wherever it is that the professor is taking us, and clearly the way there is through the forest or else, being a sensible man, he would not have taken us this way."

Dr. Sylum still showed no response, and his light still sniffed the nearest ground to find surest footing.

"Sensible?  Right, sensible."  Seville jumped a few logs forward and turned to address the knight, "Because four glass orbs show up one day and suddenly you're a legendary hero; that's sensible.  Because we're out here in the middle of the creepiest forest in the entire world searching for a Princess which, if we even are the light warriors, we aren't destined to find; that's sensible.  Because..."

"Harking accusations at something neither you nor anybody understands is not sensible, Seville." Said Edrick, getting more and more accustomed by the day at speaking with his voice raised.

"Dry up, Eddie!  I _know_ I'm not sensible."

"Still, I would take this dark forest before your dark words.  I ask once more today what you're trying to accomplish."

"You wouldn't take this dark forest for all the world, Eddie."

The pressing weight of the trees seemed now to circle around their entire forward vision, funneling them towards some unseen singularity.  As often as not they walked upon the slick branches while holding onto similar ones above for support.  The precarious movement became so dexterity intensive they could barely manage to keep the lights before their eyes.

"And in response, I am trying to get a rise out of our fearless leader.  He's been acting funny all day.  I just wanna know why we're in this forest, all right?  It doesn't have the most natural look to…"

"They say it is haunted, the people of Jrist." Dr. Sylum said suddenly, with a low and cool voice.  He had paused just briefly to take his magical short sword, still pristine from its Centennial vendor, to an entwined cable of vines.  After slashing and digging through, he created enough of a hole, and led the light warriors dauntlessly through a wall of trees.  Then he continued.

"A legend now, of course.  The story is of a corrupt king, named Lichern, who dwelled in a palace at the end of the forest.  He achieved his throne through villainy, and the common word of the day said that the king sprouted from the angry soil, a demon sent to punish the people.  Because the palace was said to crawl with the most hideous and awful of supernatural creatures, and because many of the Cornerian towns were set to waist by armies of these monsters, the palace became known as 'The Temple of Fiends'."

"How does it lead to the haunting of the forest?" Edrick asked.

"Well, actually there was no forest at the time, you could see the retched castle even from a high tower where Jrist is now located."  As he spoke the professor hacked mechanically through dead branches and trunks, looking for the path.  But he never looked back, and his voice was so very calm, very disinterested, serving if nothing else to quell the argumentative Seville.  "The people did what they always do, they rebelled.  Hereabouts is where the battle was fought.  When the villagers finally overtook Lichern they say he cursed them all for eternity and returned to the soil.  Or, as it's been more dramatically put, a great, earthy fissure opened at his command and he returned to his demon throne below."

"Forest, professor?"

"Well, that comes next.  Not wanting anything more to do with the foul refuse of the fallen fiends, the warriors that survived returned to their homes, leaving nature to sweep clean the battlefield.  But this was a grave mistake.  The quick decay of the hordes made the soil rich, but, and this is legend remember, it also infested the dirt with evil.  And worse yet, from the very spot where Lichern, the demon king, returned to the underworld, a sapling quickly emerged; the first tree of the evil forest."

"Evil?" the priest said, now returning to his normal, wavering voice.

"The trees grew at unnatural speeds, and were said to hide the Temple of Fiends from all who search for it; that only a single path could be cut to the palace, and that it was a dangerous road."  And then Sylum stopped and turned very quickly, his eyes but dim pricks of light under his brimmed hat, and he stared directly into Seville's eyes, a very precise and sharp look.  "Of course, it's just a legend.  Probably shouldn't let me choose what to do with it."  

He turned and began to walk again.  The path sloped downward quite noticeably, enough so that the heavy weight of each step fell hard on the ankle and they descended with their backs bent.  Each of them felt tired, none of them said so.

"You know, that doesn't actually answer…"

"The Temple of Fiends, Seville.  We're looking for the Temple of Fiends.  It's secluded and virtually impervious to any kind of large scale attack, the perfect place to keep a ransom … if it exists."

"But since we're counting on a legend here," Seville continued with his breathy, aggravated voice, "We can assume most of the rules we're going on aren't true."

The professor hopped a tall knot of wood and slid to a comfortable stance, then continued.  His answer came after a rest, after thought.

"Well, I know the Jrist folk used to maintain a path through the forest, and I can only think of one reason they might have done that; to keep a watchful eye on the palace.  Of course, that's long ago, and that path is overgrown."

"If the path is overgrown then how did the captors find it without leaving us a clue?"

Once again the professor stopped and turned to gaze forcefully into the rogue's face.

"Seville, I don't know.  I don't know anything.  But if I say we're going to look for the temple then we're going to look for the temple.  I don't know what we'll find when we get there, if we get there.  I don't know if we'll ever leave this forest again.  But for now this is our road, so let's just walk it, okay?"

Then Sylum spun back to his course and continued moving, showing no care to hear a response.  Seville stopped walking, so Edrick turned and waited for him to speak, and Gipson, in the back, had to stop.  Seville looked down to his feet, then up and around the forest, and then down again, clenching his fists and squinting his eyes.  He was inhaling and exhaling heavily from the stress of the hike, but anger was in it as well.  Once the professor got far enough ahead, he too stopped and regarded the rogue.  Seville spoke.

"No, no that's not okay.  I don't want to go on chasing nothing anymore.  I'm tired, and too much of our energy has been spent on this false mission.  It's just chaos, professor, whether we're in the right or wrong we're going to fail.  I'll do it with dignity, and admit it.  I'll tell everyone that we we're wrong at that we're sorry.  I'll apologize for you the most, professor.  I'm going home now, that march starts right here."

Seville veered off the hasty path they were forging and disappeared through two black trees without a word more.

"Seville!" Edrick cried.  "Seville, no!"  And the priest followed him in.

Left standing was Sylum and Gipson.  The knight was grasping the greatsword hilted on his back as he often did while traveling and keeping his light shining on the professor.  Sylum, who held his light down along the shaft of his leg, was motionless, so motionless that the oscillating rhythm of the unnatural forest seemed to settle into equivalent stillness, the mighty beast had taken its final lumbering breath and died.  There was so much darkness surrounding, and they were so small.

"You do not join them?" Sylum asked, almost aggressively.  Gipson did not move in response, but answered exactly as he stood.

"Seville is a good fighter; he can defend Edrick if such a situation comes up.  You would need help though.  So this is the choice I will make ... for the light warriors."

Again Sylum was slow and careful with his words.  Waiting for his replies was tedious.

"A knight's honor is a marvelous thing these days."

"And I also do it for Seville.  His emotions must be excused.  He is intelligent, but also young, too young for such an idealistic venture.  And despite his words, he still thinks very highly of you."

At this Sylum downcast his eyes, and he twisted the wooden rod of the flashlight between his fingers.

"But he is confused, doctor.  You do not seem yourself."  A pause.

"Nor does it feel that way, Master Gipson," Sylum said.  "I have felt many pangs of failure over the last four days, and even for all my experience with the stuff, I somehow can hardly take it this time."

"Built up too much?"

"Just too much hope.  I really thought we had something."  Sylum slowly turned and faced deeper into the jungle, deep into a fearsome blackness into which every step promised less and less chance of return.  With his light shooting down, he could only discern the faintest tall, cylindrical patterns of the trees before him, and he could just make out his shadow from Gipson's flash.

"He will return, doctor.  And wherever he goes Edrick will follow.  Where do _we_ go from here then?" Gipson asked, with the noble quality of a servant awaiting a king's command.  

"To the palace, Master, to the palace.  As long as you wish to follow."

They started the sullen march again, and Gipson pulled closely in so that they could walk together.  But the knight was fearful, and kept a stern eye on the professor as he would a prisoner, one who might pull a hidden dagger and strike.  Some truth was in Sylum's words, no doubt, but also there was something hidden under.  A gray cloud the doctor would not puncture and let dissipate.  Heading into the very heart of darkness, Gipson felt weighing him down a prodigious pall of deceit.

********************

            "Seville!  Seville, just wait!"

            "You should not have come, Eddie.  You must have some rules in your church about allying with quitters; failures."

            "But there's no proof you are a failure and you are only a quitter because you so choose.  Just hold up a second."

            Seville was walking briskly through whatever cracks in the forest he could find, dexterously slashing away the green tendrils from the shadow-hidden canopy above.  Edrick the priest, who was ceaselessly catching his long white robe on the knobs and spikes of low branches, was huffing desperately to keep up.  The white robe was pathetic now, ripped into fleshy frays and streaked with brown and green; another trespass against the office of clergyman.  

            "It's over for me, Eddie, no turning back from turning back.  If it's not over for you then you've made a bad decision in trailing me."

            "But... but..." Edrick flummoxed as he always did, "But there is still hope, you can't let that braggart Domino control you like this.  Would this not be what he wanted?"

            "What he wanted?  He didn't want anything.  Remember, no agenda, just the truth.  You and Gipson were right, he's telling the truth, so I don't see why we'd continue.  He's right, we're not light warriors, we're not saviors.  We're just Seville the thief, Gipson the murderer, and Edrick the incompetent priest.  Spot on, Eddie, he was spot on."

            Seville stopped when there was nothing left to hurdle and he swayed the light all around.  He saw only the solid, sentry-like columns of trees, all pressed squarely against each other like fence posts.  No paths, nothing.  Edrick finally caught up with him and breathed heavily while crouching over and holding his hands on his knees.

            "You're just choosing to believe that.  Domino doesn't know anything that doesn't help him prove his point."

            "And I don't know anything that disproves it!"  Seville shouted back to the priest.  He walked up to the barrier of vegetation and felt his hands along it, gliding quickly around to find a break.  When he got to the end he kicked the final tree hard and stomped back into the middle of their path.  "Dead-end!"

            "Well," said Edrick.  "At least attempt to disprove it then.  We can at least get as far as the temple, and if that proves dry, then I'm sure everybody will join your sentiments.  Don't give up now.  You're acting rashly."

            "Oh, thanks for the expert counsel.  Look, here, we might be able to climb up over that."   

            Seville pulled a thick vine free and tested his weight upon it.  It held.  Bracing with his feet against the trees he climbed to a narrow rift in the wood and pulled himself into it.

            "Seville, you need to stop this now!"  Edrick said emphatically, walking up to the vine.  "I can't do that!"

            "Well, then you better head back to catch the others."

            "Seville..."

            "But you know, it's not that much of a climb."  Seville slipped over the crevice and disappeared.

********************

"I just remembered; you say the forest is haunted?"  Gipson asked.

            "I say that _they_ say the forest is haunted.  The royal they."  Sylum returned.

            "How is it haunted?  And with what?  Complete the story," Gipson requested.  As the two drudged torpidly over the similar, gloomy scene of black and green the knight tried to keep the professor talking.  He was searching, probing for what was really on Sylum's mind.  The feelings were more extreme than disappointment, Gipson knew.

            "Well, there you're just getting into superstition, a bunch of old wives' tale nonsense."

            "Humor me, Sylum, humor me."  Gipson had to keep digging.

            "Just remember the story.  We stand on what is probably the largest battle field in Corneria history, hundreds, maybe thousands of creatures without proper burial, the entire mass left to rot.  An evil so great it affected the soil, and from there the ghosts of the fallen supposedly made home in these woods.  And they say..."

            "There's that _they_ again..."

            "...well, they're the only ones that ever say things.  They say that the ghost of Lichern himself even makes residence in these woods occasionally, waiting for the day when Corneria is weakest and he could reclaim his castle from beyond the grave.  That's not even legend, that's just myth, a story used to keep kids out of the forest."

            "There are no recorded reports of ghost sightings, and they've had no trouble in the city limits?"  
            "Not that I've heard of."

            Then Gipson sighed of relief quietly to himself.  If he'd had reason to truly suspect ghosts were near he would not have let Seville out of his sight.  He wasn't sure how one ghost my react to the rot inflicted by another, people rarely lived as long as Seville, and this was something he didn't want Seville to find out.  Still, his sigh of relief was almost completely for show, even though he had kept it personal.  The inner-chest pumps of worry began regardless.

            "Do you notice that?" asked the professor suddenly.

            "What?" Gipson said.

            "The light.  Quick, turn off your flashlight."

            They both twisted the bottom of the wooden rods but they didn't fall into absolute darkness.  There was a faint resonance settling on the roots and vines and the tall trunks.  Their eyes so accustomed now to pure darkness the colored haze looked like gray smoke, like an early morning fog.  They could just make out the design of the trees with their eyes, completely unaided by their magical lights.

            "Reaching a way out perhaps," said the knight.

            "Come, let's hurry," Sylum said.

********************

            "This just doesn't seem like the Seville I know, running away from things." Edrick employed earnestly.  After developing the energy to vault up through the rift, the apprentice clergyman had followed Seville in another ceaseless charge through the sticky maze of plant life.  "What happened to the Seville that pressed men twice his size to their last wits?"

            "You have to learn to change, Eddie, take that lesson from the great Herrik Gipson, and learn to change.  Look what rash behavior has got me, time in jail, a reputation as a thief, and the murder of three men not by me, but by a friend I forced into it.  If I leave that behind, then just maybe I can fix my problems.  I feel better already."

            "You don't feel better, you just tell yourself that."  The priest cried.

            "And how would ya know that?" Seville said conversationally.  He and Edrick alone, it almost felt like old times, but for a slight warning inside.

            "I know what people think of me, Seville." The priest responded.  "And it's not much.  I know my backbone isn't exactly made out of iron.  And my magic is sub-par in an understatement.  You think I don't realize it?  But that doesn't mean I can't read people, and you, Seville, are a clinger, you have been since I've known you, probably since your father died." 

            Seville tightened as he always did at the mention of his father.  Why should the death of his father have anything to do with his life today?  Why did people always have to have such nerve to bring it up?  The rogue stopped hurtling around the fallen limbs and listened, the hairs on his neck crawling.

            "You're not a widely social person, but you always find those small things to hang on to.  This group, this adventure is no different.  I never believed for a second that you bought into this whole Lux Aeterna thing, that's not what this is about.  You came all this way because you wanted to be in the group, because this was a safe bet at the time.  Why change that, Seville?  They're depending on you, too.  You don't want to leave, I know you don't, and I don't want you to leave.  But you're afraid of something, and it's pushing you away."

            Seville turned and scratched the back of his head, sloshing around his scraggly neck-length hair.  Then he put his arms at his waist and sighed loudly.  He looked into the priest's eyes, the one he sometimes called a boy and sometimes a man, he now realized was much more man than him.  Despite Edrick's childish look, the chili-bowl hairstyle, the tender blonde, the face full of freckles, he was no child.  He didn't pass a kid's judgment, or yell and call names.  Just stated the facts, just tried to help.  Edrick had always been such a good friend, so impossibly good.

            "You've got a good bead on what it was, Eddie, but not so much on what it is."  Seville paused a moment, the ominous stillness of the surrounding ink pressing hard, and he tried to compose his thoughts.  Edrick only stood with his light cast at the rogue, and waited.  "The truth is that, I'm afraid I actually did start to believe, sometime that first day.  It just became so right.  But it's been downhill since then, and in my anger I've acted so stupid, so rash.  And I refuse to bring anymore pain to the group."

            "Seville..."

            "If we should fail our mission, and by my inclusion I truly think we will, then maybe you could get back in with the church, the minister always liked you.  And Gipson still has his book tour, nine-tenths of the world doesn't know any of this has happened.  But all that's left for me is to go back to the Lux and tell Mr. Dunnings that I messed up again, that I've done some more bad things, that I even got some people killed."

            "Seville, it's not..."

            "That night at the tavern, after ... well, you know, I had these thoughts in my head.  I thought that, if ever I was placed in Master Gipson's situation that I could have done what he did.  Just, killed'em!  And ... and what kind of thoughts are those to be having?  Did I ... did I look on it with some sick joy?  Or did I revel in causing it?  I don't know, I don't know what's wrong with me.  But this adventure, Eddie, this adventure brought me to it, and I don't think I should continue that way.  It is a terrible feeling when you realize how much awfulness is inside of you, and when you realize that you don't even understand it yourself.  That there's no contention, no ill will, just chaos, just some compulsion towards evil.  That you are just innately an evil human being.  And I'm sick about it.  I'm especially sick that I've clung to you all these years, you who actually manage to stay pure in this world.  And I have crushed the professor's dreams to the point that he's not himself anymore.  I did it all.  So I should stop doing that, right?  That's ... the right answer, isn't it?"

            Seville wore the gravest face Edrick had ever seen, even through his many ceremonies of the funeral sacraments.  The priest finally charged with his most honored office, advice and counsel, and he couldn't think of a thing to say.  He stuttered quiet syllables looking for the words.

            "Se ... Seville ... I ..."

            "Do you believe in the legend, Eddie?"  Seville asked like the last hope stint of a wounded child.   

            Edrick was hotter with nerve than he'd ever been.  He knew how delicate his friend now was, and cringed to realize that at so perilous a time his word was finally being tested, his knowledge was to be heeded.  Whatever he said now Seville would follow, the rogue had finally dropped all pretenses of the tough guy and just wanted to be lead by someone he could trust.  The wrong word and Seville would never harbor faith again.  Edrick thought of what he would say and drew the time out, fearing commitment, biting his lip in anger at his inability to be strong.

            "Do you, Eddie?"  Seville asked again.

            "I ..." he shook his head aimlessly, but then decided and stood tall, "I still believe in the group."

            Seville nodded affirmatively.  "Then so will I."

            "You will return with me?" asked the priest, reaching out a hand.

            "May it be the only rational thing I've ever done."  But when Seville reached out to offer his hand as well he suddenly yelped with pain, seized up tightly, and fell forward.

            "_Seville__!_" Edrick cried as his friend toppled to the ground, and he hunkered to his knees to push him over.  Seville was board-stiff, just like another branch fallen to the ground, and there were growls of anguish coming from his throat.  Seville's eyes darted their hurt look to Edrick, confused and afraid.  Edrick started to shake once again, and cried, "What is it, what is it?  What do I do?"  

            But he stopped as his ears then caught a sound.  A serene, slithery whisper hanging on the air, coming from behind.

********************

            "This is remarkable," Gipson said, "But not altogether a good thing."

            The forest was gray, light gray.  The trees were ashen and peppery, and no trace of furry green moss could be seen.  And the afternoon sun trickled in from the sparse canopy and lit up diamond shapes within the shadows.  All the green, all the omnipresent lushness, had stopped instantly; a single, final battalion of life and then gray, rows and rows of thin, mirthless trees.  They were dead, the leaves long fallen, the once pumping sap dormant, and the hard shells of the bark was cragged from petrification.  No seasonal life would return to them.

            "The forest is dying," said Sylum.

            "But still, this is not natural," the knight replied.  "What do you think it could mean?"

"That we should be careful," was all the professor gave back.

The two men sauntered conscientiously down a rather wide and breathable path.  There were no scuff marks, like those from the trod of boots, making a particular way for them, but their course was straight and unhindered by refuse; they almost basked in the comfort of the sudden emptiness.

            "Did your gainful efforts ever receive such ... well, bad reception, Master Knight?"  Sylum asked with dark confidence.  Gipson sucked his breathe in a few times and planned his move; the curious professor might soon reveal something of his ponderous mindset.  Gipson had was too used to dealing with kings and players, or even small-time showmen like Seville or the rifle salesmen, but rarely the abstract; the obscure and recondite nature of Sylum was a challenge to his wits.

            "I have never been unpopular, no, but I have had some chastisement from the journalistic circles."  The professor looked at him sketchily, so he continued.  "I'm often accused of formulating 'been there, done that' ideas, though I don't hang around literary minds enough to realize it.  I'm a hunter, I just gather the facts."

            "What do you do when that happens?" Sylum asked.  This has much to do with Domino's column, Gipson thought to himself.

            "I try to decide for myself whether or not the critic is right, but always in the end I just decide that I'm happy with what I've got and to trust myself.  I've never harbored much anger over it."

            "Of course not.  But it sounds like you've never truly felt the pain of it either."

            "What's on your mind, doctor?"  Gipson asked directly but reflectively.  "You have not been yourself."

            Gipson watched Sylum think as they walked steadily and comfortably, and he saw the scholar tighten up at the thoughts.  He was searching, searching ceaselessly for the words.  But whether to express or conceal, the knight could not divine.

            "It's, well..." Sylum spoke cautiously.  "I don't entirely trust my ability to handle another failure."

            "If it should happen it would be one you share with others and not of your doing."          

            "Did you hear me claim fault?" the professor said with a swift snap of his head, a surreptitious glance of offense.  Gipson widened his eyes briefly and then shook in the negative.  They moved a few more paces before Sylum continued his thought.

            "I don't possess Seville's pension for dramatics, though I do envy him for it, and therefore I usually don't blame myself for my shortcomings, you get over that quickly when everything you do could be categorized as a shortcoming."

            Gipson repressed a supportive comment, better to let things come out while they could.

            "I don't even think I ever told Seville, but I also write books, or I did a long while ago."

            "I always felt you seemed the type."

            "Yeah ... I'm the type.  But in ten years of the craft I never got a single publication.  Not one.  Thirteen failures.  Thirteen books in ten years is quite an accomplishment in itself, but it could just have equally been zero for me.  Not that one my of my books never saw the light of a tour, just that my name wasn't on it."

            Gipson squinted.

            "My mentor, oh, I must have been about Seville's age, told me I didn't have the spirit to create publishable work and discontinued our relationship.  A while later one of my manuscripts got him famous ... and rich.  He didn't even change the author's note.  That at first made me believe that I at least had the stuff to make it, but my work was always so disenchanted after that.  As a nonfiction writer I'm sure you don't have that problem very often.  I lived in a kingdom in the northern continent called Gaia..."

            "Yes, I've been there many times."

            "Well, then you probably remember, or at least heard of the Books' Rebellion.  Gaia was under a smothering system of law, a dictatorship run with fear.  But the people lived with it because they didn't understand anything about rights and natural liberties.  When I was hired on as a history teacher there, I started to present such ideas to them, the ones I had collected through my books.  I didn't know my own popularity, nor did I know how extremely the duke despised me.  One night I was awoken by a mob come to my door, calling me to lead them to battle against the king and establish a democracy like my unpublished works preached.  I somewhat reluctantly told them that violence wasn't the answer, but the battle came anyways, and all those disciples I didn't even know I had until it was too late were slaughtered, and what survivors there were chastised me, and chased me out of the kingdom.  Then I came here."

            Sylum paused for a moment, allowing the knight to speak if he wished, but Gipson was looking down their path calmly, waiting for more.

            "Corneria is a much more civilized society, so my ideas have never gained popularity here.  But Gaia was just one more failure on my part.  A big one.  A costly one."

            "And now this?" Gipson asked.

            "And now this."

            "Ah, but we don't know everything yet.  There is still a destination before us."

            "You know," Sylum continued as if Gipson had never spoke, "I can't really decide what gets to me so much.  That it happened or that I was never officially affiliated with it.  The rebellion was my fault, no doubt in my mind now nor was there ever, but not a single text on the events leading up to the rebellion mention Darrin Sylum, teacher of history.  They cover extensive economic backgrounds, some texts go centuries back.  Some texts report crop yields in years before the rebellion, and mention every last word the king ever spoke.  But the true reason behind it remains in shadow.    

            "As if it were something you'd desire," said the knight sternly.  Sylum looked to Gipson coldly, as if he'd been challenged, contradicted.

            "Maybe I do.  For good or bad, maybe I do.  My problem is that I can't get any recognition at all.  No matter what great or evil thing I commit.  Like I don't exist.  What a cruel twist of fate that I should be likewise born with a crave of it.  It's an academic curse, Master Gipson.  I _want_ to be known, like Unne or any of the others.  But I'm the ghost of academia.  And ... and I've got so many good ideas to share, but ... but I can't ... I'm unable!"  Sylum was getting angry.

            "That might not be in the cards for you, doctor," said Gipson rashly; not understanding what would be accomplished by it.

            "But it's the only game I've been playin'."

            "But if you believe in who you are now, then your fate has decided against it..."

            "_Fate?_  What fate?  I've given up on fate, Master Knight; our being the light warriors is really a toss up to me, given things as a whole.  No, I just continue because I truly believe the princess will be in this temple, if it exists.  But ... fate?  I just couldn't..."  

The professor stopped walking then and balled his fists.  He appeared that he would explode that very moment, and then he kicked his boot solidly into a tree and screamed, "Why couldn't something just work out for once?!"  

The loud, ferocious voice of Sylum echoed in the stillness, bounced from tree to tree and soared back to them from distances their eyes could not appropriate.  There followed a hushed rustle in the dead branches from an unfelt breeze, and then silence pervaded.  

Sylum didn't care about the disapproving look that Gipson started with, and the quick shift into a sad, empathetic semblance was almost disgusting to watch.  Inside was all fury.  When the knight raised his hand to lay down another steady line, Sylum viciously cut him off.

"I'm done talking," Sylum snapped, "If we're going to go to the temple, then let's go there already."  

Then the professor started with a vast stride and kept it at a pace so resolved that even Gipson himself had hurry to catch up.

The knight knew then how inadequate his preparation was, and he had nothing he could think to say to Sylum, nothing that would tarry him or give him brighter thoughts; for once he was useless, and therefore for once he was truly frightened.  Frightened that he was following this man, this stranger dressed in a maroon cloak with a feather-topped steepled hat, into a boundless terror, a man-made destiny of wickedness.  What malevolent ideas ricocheted in Sylum's mind?  Was it all really nothing?

"Wait!" Said Gipson fiercely, drawing his long sword _Drâco_.  Sylum swerved, choked at seeing the naked blade, and tumbled back over his foot.  He landed as a dull red pile on the forest floor.  Gipson approached carefully on light hunter's steps, and the professor threw a hand up and recoiled for the strike he knew was coming.  But then he paused, and saw the eyes of the knight; not staring menacingly into his destitute soul, but rather scanning some unknown spot in the distance.  Sylum made to get up, feeling horribly foolish, but Gipson just said "Wait" once more.  So the professor turned his head to look.

It wasn't hard to see, its vibrant color like a flare against night's helmet; a bright, alarming, almost breathtaking hue of pink.  So jarring a shade it was near violence to be set against the neutral, livid backdrop of endless pale forest.  At that distance, a goodly twenty trees away, its shape was unclear, but for sure its aggressive, flowery tincture did not agree with the bulbous mass it formed.  Hugging fatly to the bottom of a narrow trunk, the object of fascination most closely resembled a bean pod, though grossly large.  Herrik Gipson, Knight of the Coast, Lieutenant First Class, approached, and this time didn't stop Sylum from standing and following.

Half the distance to the odd pink distraction Gipson slowed once again; three more of them had come into vision, lying mostly in the same way, suckling on empty tree husks a few rows behind the most immediate.  They were soundless and motionless, but pulling closer to the front one the stench grew terrible.  Rotten, acrid, putrid smells permeated, and the climate grew syrupy again.  It was the funk of decaying flesh, of a long dead and sweating corpse, Gipson had no doubt.

The knight proceeded closely to the nearest pink blob, still looking for features, and more importantly, weapons.  He could just handle the mordant dew in his nostrils, so questioned the professor's stomach.  When two stern pokes came to his back he assumed that Sylum was falling, but turning to catch him, he was caught aback.  Behind them, squatting all over the very ground the two men had just tracked, Gipson saw a platoon of the creatures, at least twenty that were not there even a minute before.  And they were close, some on two trees away.

            "What are they?" exasperated Sylum, but the response did not come from Gipson.

            Off the nearest infected tree, the pink blob slithered down and took the shape of a fleshy slug, dripping with a translucent ooze.  Gipson turned and readied his long sword and took a short sword in his free hand.  He could not find the creature's eyes if it had them, but it made perfectly clear that instant it had a mouth.  The creeping slug opened its toothy, blood red maw and struck.

********************

            Neck hairs standing like soldiers, devilish whispers pervading his mind, and his friend, just moments from savior, stony and pained at his feet, Edrick was engulfed.  Sweat made curved streaks down his round face, and his eyes were unable to escape their dead stare forward.  Then came a curdling scream with enough force in it to push Edrick up and over the paralyzed Seville.  He completely flipped and landed sourly with a tree knot jutting into his back.  But the pain was secondary to his vision.  In his jaunting, reversed sight he saw the monster, floating on the air with a billowy black cloak that seemed made of no more than wisping gas.  It was topped with a smiling skull that glowed orange from its sockets and its two skeletal hands braced out to the sides and made clawing motions.  Edrick was frozen in his back-aching stance, wholly stopped with fear.  The awful, bulky breathing sounds of the specter seemed to press him flat into the rotting branches with each gust, and the fire from its eyes and the two dropped flashlights only gave the faintest idea of its terrible size.  It could have been half as tall as one of the lumbering trees.  Seville recognized it immediately, but could not for all his effort speak out a warning to the priest.  

            The ghost floated a little higher and crossed over the two pathetic men.  Its fluid body melted into the nearest solid patch of trees and for the brief second it was gone, but just as quickly is it had come the first time it flew back into sight with another banshee-like wail.  The poltergeist seemed to have resolved that its prey was passive enough, and it reached down its giant hands and clasped Seville and Edrick firmly between the hard, rawboned fingers.  Seville gurgled and choked, still inflexible, and Edrick squeezed his eyes shut and pressed against the tightness.  The wind rammed out of his chest and the lung-wrenching pain brought on tears.  The end was just upon them, when suddenly the wraith started moving, flying expeditiously through the tight-knit trees.  To Edrick's unavoidable wonderment, he noticed that he and Seville were passing through the trees just as smoothly as the apparition.  Soon the forest grew sparser, and light flushed over them.

********************

            "You're sword, man!" Gipson screamed, as he strafed and plunged a blade into the belly of the pink worm.  The loose innards, shiny garnet and hot enough to steam, splayed out onto the soil and dug a shallow crevice into it.  

            Sylum danced back in his surprise and recklessly fished his magic short sword from its hilt, so much so that it nearly flung from his hands.  He took a good grip of it and closed in with Gipson, who had stuck his short sword into the dirt and scraped the acidic blood of the creature off with _Drâco_; then he held it up.  The very outer skin of the blade was dull and pattered with miniature teeth marks.  

            "It eats the metal; I hope your blade's the real deal."  Gipson said.  "Stand at my back.  Here they come!"

            Sylum did as told and saw before him five of the horrid monsters deftly sliding towards.  A hasty glance over his shoulder showed that Gipson had just as many to handle.  Having nothing but to wait their approach, Sylum tried rigorously to stop the weakening tremble of his hand, but could not, so he held the small blade in both hands.  Gipson's monsters arrived first.

            "Dodge!" the knight roared and somersaulted to the right, leaving Sylum a standing target.  But the acrobatic attracted the slugs, and they turn and hissed.  Gipson ran into their fray and hacked at them across their width, beheading two before having to juggle his feet out of the pooling bleed.  "Act Sylum!"  

            The professor turned and made an incautious swing at the closest worm, but it ducked its head around and growled, and displayed its teeth.  It catapulted mouth wide, but only sided Sylum, who spun clockwise to meet the creature and did with a forceful thrust into its opened throat.  A geyser of red heat spattered onto Sylum's hand and all feeling was lost.  His grip fell away from the blade and the anguished slug flopped to either side, spitting its blood in higher and higher arcs until it finally died and slapped its heavy body once more to the ground.  The corpse shriveled as normal slugs do, and as the inner-lodged blade pierced more and more within, the freshly ripped pockets of the hot liquid splattered out the creature's wounds like popping boils.

            The doctor thought his right hand was dead; it hung limply and was completely without response.  And that was only one creature.  Sylum charged at Gipson and pulled from out of the knight's hilt his Werebane short sword, which Sylum readied in his off-hand.  

            "The blood is numbing!" cried Sylum in a girlish frenzy, but Gipson hadn't the time to give response.  The knight forcefully kicked another fallen worm to the side and dashed into melee with two others.  He pushed the first strike to the side with a dexterous slap of the flat side of his blade, and then fenced off the second strike by spiking the tip of _Drâco_ into the slug's soft palate and twisting it to its back.  He pulled the sword out before the red streams could run to his hand.  Taking a quick inventory around him he tossed his head every direction, but then turned to meet the worm he'd only delayed.  

            Not even giving it the chance to finish its dramatic hiss, Gipson tore his sword into the monster's gums, slicing free the entire top row of teeth.  It spat with anger and gnashed its sore head into the dirt, but the knight quickly finished it with a lengthwise gash and ran off to aid Sylum, scraping the blood off his short sword as he did.

            The doctor had just axed through his second kill, and now his entire right arm slung haphazardly as he parried and thrust.  Three of the pink slugs approached from one side, and he caught the first attacker in its teeth and with a tiring shove he pushed the sack of ooze backwards.  It shook its head as if startled.  Sylum treaded backwards, uncertain of where the assault would come, and then as if initiating some kind of group tactics, all three approached with an equally weighty momentum.  Sylum almost keeled and fell to his back once more, but just then Gipson ran before him, and stopped one of the coursing slugs short with a savage drilling into the monster's side.  Losing the synch, another of the slugs stopped and twisted its head at the knight, leaving just one for Sylum to contend with, which he did with a timed sidestep and downward slash.  But he only cut a scar into its tail, and the worm slid around and scrunched in for a pounce.  Sidestepping once more the professor swung wide and met the flailing vermin as one would with a club, digging in and through and effectively bisecting it.  The two halves spurted inwards madly and landed and shook.  Then they shriveled.  

            Turning to Gipson to give him aid, Sylum couldn't help but notice that the knight looked impressed, but he couldn't hold that face for long.  He held his tongue between his lips and took combat to another of the pink creatures.  Sylum rushed in to double team, but was caught off guard when he accidentally put some distance into his vision, the slugs kept on coming.  To every direction he then looked; twenty, no, thirty more, moving fast and in large, organized squads.  Some still a ways back, but many that would be upon them directly.  Dead arm dangling at his side, Sylum screamed barbarically and charged an attacking worm.  

            He beat it accurately to its quick death, and helped Gipson put down another of them.  All around them they heard the crackling of sliding bodies and the sizzle of the blood cooking into the ground.  All the dirt under them was red and wet, and the ground and been burrowed until uneven.  Stepping into the pooling juice it melted their boots.

            "We move!" Gipson instructed, and they jumped over the thickening rivers of the boiling material and onto dry soil.  No direction they could choose would lead them away from the advancing army.  Once more the knight cleaned his blade and then did the same for the Werebane short sword.  Then he grabbed Sylum's arm and looked at it closely.

            "Pain?" he asked hurriedly.

            "None," answered the professor.             

            "Probably just paralysis," Gipson said knowingly with a raced but assured voice.  Sylum gulped and nodded, and quivered at the foreign feeling of his distant arm and at the surging adrenaline inside.  Then he readied his blade, with Gipson following suit.  

            "Be careful," Gipson said finally, and the second wave was upon them.

********************

            The wraith slung them down on the forest floor, Seville still suspended like a brick and Edrick tumbling over onto his stomach.  The priest coughed and sucked in short, spasmodic breaths and scurried crab-like over to Seville, who had landed on his back.

            At the end of their journey the forest had turned pale and lifeless, seamless acres of gray, stony trees.  And the sun shone in brightly so that it hurt their eyes.  Edrick, fighting his awe of this sudden sight, focused on Seville as well he could, but had trouble collecting his breath.

            The fearsome ghost, now revealing its gargantuan size, soared above them, its undulating black cloak making whipping and cracking noises as it sloshed in its own wind.  The demon eyes of the ghoul burned scars upon them as it floated there.  Then, with a menacing, cruel and stupid cock of its smiling head the ghost reached within itself and pulled out a colossal scythe that wreathed in and out of spectral nothingness and glowed an ugly white.  Edrick was sure then it meant to strike and finish them, but it did not.  Instead it took to speedy flight and maneuvered around the surrounding trees, sometimes venturing a good distance out.  And it started to screech its most awful sound through the trees, sailing over the two men again and again, calling its devil-voice out.  And the flight was so fast that the phantasmal scythe whistled in the real air and the orange glow of the eyes left tails in their vision.

            "Eddie..." came Seville's weak voice. 

            "Seville!  You can speak!" the priest called.

            "Eddie ... sleeve ..."

            "What?  What is it?"  Edrick scampered his hands along Seville's body looking for injury.

            "Eddie!" Seville was finding strength from somewhere, but his words were almost all aspiration.  "Sleeve!"

            The priest cast a confused visage but followed the order and went to Seville's right arm and pulled the sleeve up carefully, afraid that harsh motion would injure his friend.  But then beside himself with nerve he shot his small hands away from what he saw.  The ghost rot, the usually dull and empty scars of black pelting Seville's arm glowed a ghastly, shocking shade of purple.  And the long veins of the underarm especially blazed with phosphorescence, so bright he could almost see it vessel like blood.  

            Edrick wanted to scream with fear but choked on his own voice, his tongue was too thick in his mouth.

            "I've ... seen this before ..." Seville revealed at no more than an utter.  

            "What?  What do you mean?  Where?  How?"  Edrick's voice trilled and quaked.  He grasped Seville by the shoulders and peered in to see and here.

            "I've ... seen this before ..." Seville could not move his limbs, but still he could cough and hack at the pain.  He could close his eyes and did so repeatedly, the pulsing agony so powerful he was sure his bones would shatter.  "Dream..."

            "What dream?  What dream?  I don't understand!"

            "Dream..." And then it looked that Seville would pass under forever, but just as uncertainly he opened his eyes wide and alert, and forced his stare into Edrick.

            "You have to be careful..."

            "What do you mean?  What do..."

            "The professor!  You have to watch out for..."  He stopped then, sickeningly aware of a sound.  Edrick picked it up that instant as well.  So loud and definite even to beat through the howls of the poltergeist, was the all too nearby shuffle of feet.

********************

            Gipson bullied the snarling worm up onto a tree, bracing his sword flat against it, and then ran it through with his other weapon, slashing out and away from himself to let the toxic blood spill there.  Then he sliced the flat of the sword against the tree to wipe away the blood, and the red poison instantly began to eat into the stone wood.

            The true offensive had come.  The brilliantly shaded pink slugs were only slowed by their trying to crawl over themselves.  Like pools of overgrown maggots the monsters slithered forward.  The knight took another of them, pronged it with both of his swords simultaneously, and flexed all his muscle to toss it into a patch of the others.  A yelp from behind and Gipson turned to join Sylum who was having a harder time of it; the first battle he'd had a part in and down one arm.

            "Together!" the knight declared, and the two warriors circled oppositely and flanked a slug.  It rotated its head either way but made no decision before Gipson and Sylum tore into it.  Now each of the warriors skillfully shifted on the balls of their feet and dodged the outpour of blood.  They turned face to rejoin, but as they moved an angry line of the barking slugs intercepted their rank and proceeded an attack on each.

            Gipson rolled into them, knocking two to the side with fierce kicks and then he skewered another down the long shaft of its body.  Unable to pull the sword from the tight flesh of the worm's mouth, Gipson had to release the blade, to which the monster then gnarled and thrashed.  It tried to swallow the short sword but only pressed its sharp edge inside of it, then it curled and died.  Gipson cleaned _Drâco_ on the slug's shivering body and sheathed it.  Readying for the two he'd kicked behind him, Gipson pulled his greatsword.  As he turned he already set the five foot edge into motion.

            The apex caught the first monster while airborne from its pounce and split its head into halves, and Gipson cleaved it straight through to the second slug but only managed to catch it on the blunt side.  Although the worm lost its lethal aim, its formidable weight still thrust it into Gipson's side, and the knight flailed and toppled.  His knowing hands rummaged the ground, but a sly snap of the slug's tail put the blade out of reach.  It approached and showed its teeth.  But as the worm reveled in its victory Gipson found a glass vial on his belt and pulled it free.  The slug let out a hiss, but too late.  Gipson shook the bottle frantically and then shoved it directly into the monster's throat.  He rolled away quickly as he could and covered his eyes, then came the crystalline shatter of the vial.  Gipson only glanced to see his success before running to grab his greatsword.  The slug was motionless, in fact, completely frozen through, and covered with ice.

            Darrin Sylum was tired.  His endurance did not keep up with the skills he was discovering, and the creatures started to amass.  Their attacks had become routine, but his reflexes dragged slower and slower with every swing of the sword.  The heart in his chest was like a giant's hands beating on the prison of his ribcage.

            "Gipson!" he cried, desperately needing aid in this last leg of the battle, but had to concentrate too closely on the next move to see if the knight was coming.  He strafed, hammered the sword into a slug's head, cut away, and scooted to avoid the rogue spray of blood.  Three then grouped against him and covered three of his flanks.  Sylum backed but didn't know enough of what was behind him to risk a dash.  He waited for one or all to close in.  The middle one pounced and he met it hard at the mouth but only managed to slice at its lips, which started to perilously drip with the red venom, and then the other two followed with a second attack.  Sylum cringed and dropped, and then he heard a leathery pop.  The struck slug launched over him and rolled dead along the ground, an arrow protruding from its head.  His chest leaping at the opportunity Sylum took the Werebane and gutted the nearest worm and against all the pangs of his muscles he forced himself up one-handedly and prepared to continue.  But then he saw that most of his quarry had already been put down by Gipson's arrows.  And before he could turn to find the knight, Gipson was already upon him, brandishing his mighty greatsword and joining him in the foray.  

            The knight cleaved through four worms like air, bellowing ferocious war cries, and in the time it took those bodies to settle dead upon the ground, he had already scored extra lacerations into the arrowed slugs to finalize their defeat.  

            The end was near, just a few lucky slugs left in their proximity and none on the horizon.  This invigorated the fatigued Sylum, made his battle thirst unquenchable, and he charged opposite Gipson to handle a further flank.  He cut into an unready monster and then kicked the corpse off with his boot, already spinning to face the next one and final one in his obligation.  It must have realized it was alone, for it was careful, and it ducked its head and tried to fake.  Sylum made preemptive chops at its maw but could not land a solid hit.  It went like that for a few moments more, gain-less attempts from Sylum and slick retreats from the slug.  Finally, the professor could have no more.  He flipped the sword in his grasp so that the blade ran down his forearm and just javelined it into the worm.  It festered and rattled as they did, but when Sylum pulled the Werebane free, he heard not the sputtering sounds of its death, but the aching, gut-rending scream of a man.

            He turned and saw Gipson.  The knight's left shoulder was completely lost inside the mouth of a pink slug, and that slug swizzled its back end in the air as it chewed down on the bones.  Before Sylum even registered a thought he saw the only other remaining worm slide up to Gipson and pounce onto his side and starting digging its teeth in just the same.  Sylum cried in fury and charged them.

            There was so much inertia in his legs that Sylum could not even stop to aim the strike, but rather he just ran through with his blade out and halved the high slug.  The violent gushes of blood settled before Sylum returned and when he did he ferociously pummeled the Werebane into the final slug and tore it free of the knight.  It latched sternly to the blade as it could, but Sylum just kept hacking the air until enough strikes fell into the worm to leave it dead.  Gipson finally dropped his greatsword and fell to the ground, landing in a rippling pool of the hot entrails, and the misty cloud of jetting blood that Sylum reaped from the last two slugs rained down on the knight's back, completing the saturation.

            "Gipson!" Sylum whelped.  He knelt to embrace the knight but landing his left knee in the dirt it quickly ran numb, the sluices of red burning through his clothes and soaking against his skin.  He hobbled to his feet, with just barely enough left in his numb leg to stand and pulled Gipson over so that his face wasn't buried in the refuse.  Then he took the knight by his collar and pulled as mightily as he could to little avail.  But the burning of the hot blood left the dirt like mud, and Sylum, straining every bodily muscle, and stressing every artery, pulled Gipson to dry ground.  

            Most of Gipson's armor was deformed and warped, and enough of the stuff had dripped into the inner cavity to leave him completely paralyzed.  Sylum haggardly stepped into Gipson's vision and tried to speak.

            "Can you talk?"  But the old knight only gurgled.  Sylum couldn't tell what blood was Gipson's and what blood was that of the creatures, and against Gipson's plate mail, which was already red, the damage was hard to see.  But the deep incisions in Gipson's shoulder and side were not trifles.  A weak but steady spout of Gipson's blood was produced from a low shoulder wound, and the blood from his side ran black.  When Sylum lifted his good hand to his mouth to stifle a shiver he realized he could feel little of it, and saw that most of the left hand had soaked in the deathly life-venom of the slugs.  

            He peered at Gipson.

            "What do I do?"  The knight's life was waning.  "I can't help you with all of the ... stuff."

            It appeared then the knight was trying to speak.

            "What's that?"  Sylum was intimately forward.  "Can you talk?"  

            Sylum bended lowly and carefully on his good knee and put his ear to Gipson's mouth.  He clearly heard the only two words that Gipson was trying to make.

            "_Find Edrick!_"

            He looked at the knight gravely.

            "I ... I can't ..."  Gipson could not make a face, which was direly frightening to Sylum's composure.  "I can't.  They're gone.  I can barely walk."  

            But that cold, lifeless face stayed on the front of Gipson's head, and his eyes started to glaze, and they rolled up slightly and studied the back of their lids.

           "_Gipson!_" Sylum yelled one final time and then hunkered down and took the Werebane as best he could in the weak, unmanageable grasp of his left hand.  And then he staggered away from the battle scene, down a lonesome road of untouched gray forest, moving half a step at a time on his numb leg, and letting his lifeless arm flap at his side.  The unbelieving light warrior, lost in the middle of a haunted forest on way to a temple that might not exist, found himself searching for a priest.


	11. A Mending of Ways Pt 2

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 11 ~ A Mending of Ways Pt. 2

            "What are they, Seville?" Edrick gasped, eyes wide and lip trembling.  His two frantic hands anchored to his paralyzed friend, grabbed around his arm and there held tightly.  Seville groaned at his pain.  "What are they, Seville?  What are they?"

            The shuffling feet brought creatures.  Human creatures, except with lax flesh of morbid grays, browns, and subtle greens, and the skin about the head was wrinkled and cadaverous.  Several wore armor, but the mid-straps were eaten away, and the long plated metal hung a skewed angles.  The suits seemed more confining than shielding.  Others wore only clothes, or what was left of them; the tatters seemed simultaneously earth-soaked and moth-eaten, and some were of astonishingly dated fashion.       

            "Seville..." Edrick's mouth still chattered.  The humanoids came slowly, not dodging trees when they came to them, but just slamming into them and pressing around them in time.  They grunted and moaned, but the sounds were low at this too short distance.  The wraith was calling them, it's shrill cries bringing the monsters to Edrick and Seville.  It seemed they had come from nowhere; the priest looked up to find them off in the trees, dully moving towards him, their gaunt arms held out and the thin fingers grabbing the air.

            "Se..."

            "Zom..." 

            "What?!  Seville, can you speak?"  Edrick dropped his quivering head low, but still didn't drop his eyes from the approaching ghouls.  Seville's voice was sorrowfully dim.

            "Zombies..." the rogue said finally.

            Edrick whimpered and panted.  He darted his eyes all around.  They were coming faster now.  They could smell the humans.

            "You ... you stay back!" Edrick yelled, of course to no avail.  "What do I do, Seville?  What do I do?"

            Coming through the final trees the zombies put speed in their step, their withered, filth-ridden hands reaching out for the prey, the food.  The circling ghost stopped calling; it raised high in the trees and looked down with its cruel glittering smile as its children came into the attack.  There were so many of them, a dozen on the brink and more behind, and they had been hungry for so long.  Their guttural sirens were angry and syrupy so close.

            Hand shaking awfully, Edrick pulled one of Seville's daggers free and pointed it in the air like candy on a stick.

            "I can't do this," he said, and the zombies closed in.

********************

            It was the same, everywhere the same.  Endless gray trees, endless death, hopeless bounds of distance.  So infinite was the path that he developed some lateral kind of vertigo.  He felt like his eyes would set to the pattern; that this lifeless forest would burn onto his vision forever.  The knight had shrunk to nothingness behind him, and that same nothingness lie ahead.  

            "Edrick!" Sylum called.  "Edrick!"

           It was all in vain, he knew.  They were gone for good, and so would come the death of the greatest hunter of all time, Herrik Gipson.  One more thorn in Sylum's insignificant side.  What was one more failure?  That thought made him stop, and he stood eerily motionless and let the stifling air kiss his neck.  Pain and fear subsided, and anger moved in.  He slumped his back against a tree and breathed heavy.  What was that feeling?  Was it just anger?  Was it _nervous_?  That same crawling sensation that hadn't left him all day, like his veins and arteries were filled with caterpillars.  Could it just be nerve?  Or was it ... _realization_.  A final understanding of one's intent; one's capabilities.  He just couldn't say.

            Sylum gripped down as hard on the Werebane as his numb hand would allow and launched from the tree with a vehement growl.  He looked every direction and spited the emptiness.

            "Edrick!" he pierced into the sky, and started moving again.

********************

            The dagger did nothing.  So useless in his pitiful hands, Edrick gouged the first zombie in what remained of its belly but the blade only gashed in slightly and then scraped across the surface.  Completely un-phased, the looming zombie stomped Edrick sideways and draped its feasting hands onto Seville.  The rogue yawped mutedly, and strained despite the pain to move, but could not.  Two more of the lurching zombies circled onto Seville and hunkered to feed

"_No!_" Edrick cried, pushing himself up and fishing the dagger up out of the dirt.  With frenzied mind he charged and tackled shoulder-first into them, and he just managed to topple them back.  Contrary to their rotted features, they were incredibly heavy and dense.  And relentless, the zombies began to stand immediately, and one of them chose to crawl to the rogue.  Edrick changed his grip on the knife and then like an ice pick stabbed it down into the crawling zombies back.  But it just kept scuffling along its course, as if nothing had happened.

The priest pulled the dagger free and kicked at the zombie's head, and then did again and again.  The creature was unstoppable.  Spinning he saw that another four had arrived and bolted and lunged into another group that was circling around Seville.  They fell and rolled as before, and just as before began approaching instantly after.  

"Back, you devils!" he screamed, punching his small arm into a tall zombie.  It landed with a meaty thud and Edrick flinched back with a hurting wrist.  The zombie took only enough notice to slap Edrick away to the side before it continued on to Seville.  The priest landed hard on his head, and the trickling blood soon fell into his eyelashes.  He smeared the gash on his forehead to stop the flow and then looked.  So soon, Seville was completely lost behind the gaggle of hungry creatures.  Edrick saw only a mass of rotted legs, arms, and backs scrounging into the center.

"_Seville__!_" 

Edrick rushed them with the dagger-point forward and collided abruptly with one of the hulking creatures.  Nothing.  Furious, he freed the blade and went in again and two more times after that, and finally the zombie turned and swung its lanky arms in a surprisingly quick pivot of the waist.  The gust of air from the swing startled Edrick, and he stumbled backwards, but he just as quickly regained composure and went into the zombie once more.  Striking its side hard, Edrick forced the monster back and into a group of others.  Moaning and horridly thoughtless, they crumbled to the floor and clamored over each other for a foot's grip.

There was the gap, and Edrick thrust himself into it, pressing between two undisturbed zombies.  It wasn't as bad as he thought it would be; Seville had not taken any severe damage but only minor cuts.  The zombies were having trouble digging through his leather armor.  Still the rogue gurgled and hiccupped at all the pain tearing through him.  Fighting to impress his way in, boxing himself against the mesh of arms and heads, Edrick dropped his pleading hands onto Seville and squeezed as tightly as he could to whatever material he could grab.  And then he started pulling, screaming relentlessly at the undead abominations, resisting the gnashing faces.  But he could not move Seville from his spot, lodged among the soon-to-feast villains.

Pulling, pulling with all his might, Edrick was suddenly aware of the many feet around him.  More had arrived, so many that only the greediest few could get into the paralyzed rogue, and the others either attempted to muscle their way in or circled the feeding mindlessly.  Edrick's back was arched out, his feet scuffling through the dirt as he tried to gain leverage enough carry Seville away from the zombies, but it would seem hopeless.  The zombies were too many.

Then without any expectation, Edrick cried out to the horribly sour pain of rotten teeth tearing into his arm.  He'd not even seen the head shoot in to strike.  With another yelp as the teeth began to chew, his right arm twitched, raced in and out of his control, and flushed brightly with scorching blood.  Instinctively he reared his injured arm back, but the anchored teeth kept their prey, and the flesh tore free.  Edrick received back against his chest a swollen red rod of flesh; with a laceration so deep across the outer-forearm the bone was revealed.  Before his mind could register the true pain, before it could consider the sanguine sluices drenching his mottled robe, before it could translate any action beyond cupping his left hand to the gory wound, that same zombie struck Edrick across the face and put the priest prone into the soil.  So sudden it had been, so instantly an unimaginable horror had overtaken him; his eyes filled with tears and he coughed at the rocky itch of inhaling the ground's dust into his throat.

Reverberating pain was superior to everything; grievous sickness came from his torrential arteries.  The world around, the trees, the dirt, the creatures, the gray, all spun and motioned and filled him with noise, and sparkled like chattering sequins.  Edrick knelt his head into his ragged arm and felt his tears mix with the blood, both loose and hot.  He thought he could smell the rottenness of the teeth in the wound.

He had to right himself, had to do something.  He couldn't stop now when nobody would have stopped on him.  Imagining that the pain lie just in the one arm he tried to roll over, and when succeeding found himself stared down by a hungry zombie, its maw shimmering scarlet still from its first bite.

The grabbing hands lowered.

Edrick kicked it away, not forgetting, but overcoming his anguish for at least long enough do that.  He scuttled backwards, like half crab-walking, still caressing his hurt arm in the other on his chest.  Challenged, the zombie tottered forward to take another taste, and Edrick racked his brain to find a use for his time.  Then, summoning more power than he thought he could muster, he kicked both legs into the trailing zombie's abdomen and it faltered back and fell.  It of course returned to its chase as readily as it could, and Edrick knew that such strength he might not find again in his condition; not with the gaping injury of his forearm.  He had to cure himself; had to test his true weakness as a priest of the church.  

Like a mother, precariously releasing her safe child into the world, Edrick released his comfort grip on the injured arm and held the red-blotched fingers of his good hand up and rubbed them together, summoning the magic.  He chanted, the runic words coming infantile from his shaky throat, and he tried despite everything to keep his eyes straight up, reading up the straight rails of the bare trees, concentrating, heavily concentrating.  His tongue was too dry, his lips inoperable, they couldn't find the words.  His eyes swayed to the impending zombie hastily, and then back up, and then back down.  Like this, the magic would never come.

A pained moan from Seville then struck him viscerally and the grumbling zombie left his thought.  The direness of the situation finally set him into a moment of clarity, and shimmering glades of white air circumscribed his shuffling fingers.  They heated up, and the transparent foam of the white magic began to bubble.  Edrick belted out his cantrip frantically, not noticing that the zombie had stopped approaching.  

A single burst of vibrant snowy warmth shockwaved out; the cure was ready.  Beside himself with marvel, Edrick brushed the spell across his injured arm and instantaneously the frayed fibers of muscle stretched and connected, and the shield of skin expanded and melded back into its place.  Light feathery steam rose from a healthy flat where had once been a pit of flowing blood.  The injury was completely gone, along with the pulses of pain.  

It was more revitalizing than anything he'd ever felt, and it seemed the zombie, if such a thing were possible, had been put into fear by it.  It stood with its closest example of a dumfounded look planted on its face, its legs still, its arms to its side.  No attack.  Overcome with zealous excitement and confusion, Edrick made to stand, and went hot with revelation when he realized the stunned creature was following every motion of his glowing hand with its cocked head.  

"It fears me," Edrick thought.  "White magic!"

The priest advanced.

The zombie shuddered and clumsily back-stepped, but Edrick was far too quick for it.  Benign energy radiating from his hand, he slapped his palm flat into the rotten monster's chest and sent the magic in.  It sounded as if every petrified bone in its body had shattered, and looked as if the shrapnel had pelted into the inside of its skin.  It slumped to the ground a broken, puffy mass; and laid still.  As the last willows of white dissipated from his hand, Edrick was immobile, paralyzed with the most wide-eyed, awestruck gaze imaginable aimed at his righteous fingers.

The entire army of feeding zombies stopped and turned.  Their vacant eyes found the priest, but the legs didn't chase.  They stood and _feared_ him.

Coming down, Edrick saw them, ready for his attack.  He breathed heavy, confused and nervous of own power.  This was something he'd never seen.  Edrick brought his hands finger to finger and then pressed them flat, closed his eyes, and chanted the spell once more.  With a surprised spark through his chest, he opened his eyes and saw the holy cure wrapped around his digits, channeling in hot currents, ready to cast.  The magic had come instantly, _instantly_.

He looked at the zombies once more, watched their dumb stares, and caught that same sound of his friend hurting on the ground.  Edrick gritted his teeth and then growled ferociously.  He charged them.

********************

            "That sound!" Sylum said under his breath.  "Screaming!"

            His chest heaved, the fatigue washed through him, waves of gut-sickening tiredness tried to drop him to the ground.  But hanging on the air, the sound of a voice, high and angry, and joining it crisp crackling sounds he couldn't identify.  It was close.  So close.

            Sylum put vigor in his burdened steps; all that remained.

********************

            Edrick slapped them to the side, and the heavenly transfer of energy thrust them back.  The undead clamored and writhed among each other get away from the murderous priest, but their slow legs could not grant them solace.  The white foam of the cure spell was so potent it leaped off his Edrick's fingers like short tails of lighting.  He rushed into two more zombies and left them flailing through the air and colliding back into the dead trees.

            The spell faded, but even before the last sparkles of white were gone Edrick put his hands together and chanted the next one in its place.  It came into being even before the words were done; so natural.

            He tore through them like paper, reaching for the nearest and launching it forcefully back and returning it to its long past death.  The furthest zombies recoiled so violently they even managed a sort of run, though on their questionable legs they mostly fell to their stomachs.  Edrick would get to them soon.

            He made his way to Seville, knocking back every fleshy obstacle in his way.  Edrick jolted onto the rogue and straddled his feet around him, and then he spun his arms every direction and ended five zombies more.  So quickly the daunting army was put into retreat, but the priest wouldn't allow it.  He chased them down, and with a single pat on the back the entire inner-structure of a given zombie collapsed along with the creature itself.  Rearming his spell once again, he followed further into the trees and downed ten more in the surrounding area.  They put up no resistance to his holy magic.

            If they had emotions, it seemed then they were moaning with anger, bitterness as the priest took time to kneel low to a crawling zombie and grab it by the head, zapping its skull through with white bubbles and leaving it still.  Sure, his heart pounded, and he was dizzy with kinetic electricity, and the draining exertion of such incessant casting was starting to reveal itself, but the battle was his.  A smile even found his lips as he ran down the final few.

            They were done, twenty, no, thirty, maybe even more.  Unholy creatures of beyond the grave put down in a matter of minutes by a hack priest, Edrick was beside himself.  He let the last cure drift off and ran to Seville.  Coming onto him he saw the blood and heard the groaning, and the purple shine of the rogue's arm still stuck out like an ominous beacon.  It wasn't until Edrick dropped to his knees that the whelps of fatigue set on him.  Heavy gushes of bodily drooping, as if all his muscles relaxed in a single instant.  He shook his head and stretched his eyes wide, as if he were about to go to sleep.  And just then, when he was going to set himself to Seville's aid, he was pressed down into his friend's chest by the screeching wail of the banshee.

            He'd forgotten it, floating silently as it chose up amongst the treetops, granting only a grinning stare to its children.  Edrick rotated himself around so that his head lay on Seville's stomach but at least looked up, and the ghost was there; just above him, with its smile turned to an enraged scowl and its incorporeal scythe bared and readied.  It screamed again.

            Edrick tensed and his throat closed up, and when he brought his hands together they stayed cool.  He attempted the evocation again but got nothing.  The poltergeist drifted lower and grinned once more, its bony fingers of its hands crawling together and preparing a sweeping strike.  The scythe shot up.

            The priest rubbed his hands together frenetically and yelled out the words as if possessed by a demon and darted his eyes straight into those vacant, orange sockets of the ghost.   Then it hit, the exorbitant hotness of the magic, just as the wispy blade fell.  No time to move, Edrick put his palms up and out and scrunched his fearful eyes.

            A bright flash above him and the radiating, mechanical sound of the scythe grinding against his palm above.  The boiling wraith slapped the reaping point down twice more, but the incredible force that the priest put against him bounded it back.  Then Edrick grabbed the airy blade, felt the cold metal in his powerful hands and clenched it to himself.  The ghost flapped up and down on the shaft of its weapon and spun in circles around it, creating voluminous winds, but Edrick held fast to the blade.  With a final scream the wraith banished the scythe in ribbons of smoke and flew off through the trees and disappeared.  

Edrick lay panting and aghast, gazing blankly into the dormant canopy.  Not until the last echoes of the banshee's wails had come and gone did the priest bring his sweating hands down and release the strained muscles throughout his body.  He thought he would pass out that moment; the tiring wallops of thinning adrenaline pummeling his limbs.  But then he thought of Seville and wedged his eye lids open for a little longer.  He sat up and turned.

            Seville was breathing; just looking up and breathing, letting the comfort of the most immense of pains suddenly vanishing lull him into a state of floating, as if he was drifting down some timeless river, forgetful of past and future and only enjoying the moment.  Each open and welcome breath seemed to carry his healthy blood further into his hands and feet and returned the life to him.  It was a marvelous climax to such an infinite pain.

            But Edrick was aware of things.  His scan of Seville was more positive than he'd expected, but still his friend was not in good shape.  Mostly he would bruise, the punching motions of the zombie being most commonplace, and never did the monsters get in a bite like Edrick had known, but Seville had been slashed twice down his left arm and there was some blood seeping up from a crease in his leather armor.  Also his lips were cut and the spotted blood dressed his teeth and gums.  His eye was already blackening.

            Edrick took Seville by the hand and was relieved to feel it grasp back.

            "Can you sit up, do you think?" he asked.

            "Heh, why not?" Seville responded with a light chuckle.  The priest had to help him do it, then he began to ready a cure spell, but Seville called him off.

            "Don't worry about it!"

            "You're hurt.  You can trust me..."

            "There might be more, save what you have left.  I'll be fine."

            Seville wasn't sure about that, but couldn't really offer anything else.  He wanted to lay back down.

            "By the way..." said Seville, catching Edrick's eyes, "That was ... pretty good."

            "Only pretty good?" returned the priest.  "That was _amazing!_  You couldn't see everything, Seville.  Look!  Look!  I got'em all!"

            Indeed, there was quite the collection of fallen bodies fanning out.

            "I never thought you had it in you."

            "Heh, I got plenty.  Let me cure you..."

            "No!  I'll be fine.  This is what I get for running off."

            "I don't think you can..."

            "Quiet!"

            There were footsteps on the air, lanky footsteps like those of a zombie.  The lack of barriers to every direction made all sounds mysterious; the source was always jumping from side to side.  Though beaten and well drenched with his own blood, Seville quietly pulled his remaining dagger from its sheath.  Edrick gave him a concerned look and shook his head disapprovingly.

            _You can't_, he mouthed, but it didn't matter.  From two rows over, and looking the most pathetic that man had possibly ever looked, appeared Doctor Darrin Sylum, beaming with sudden relief.  

            "Professor!" shouted Edrick gleefully, though the sudden rush gave him exhausted pains again.  It looked however, that his exhaustion in no way compared to Sylum's.  The professor hobbled over, the Werebane armed in his left hand, and he was scratched with battle, and his right arm and legs seemed to droop.

            "Eddie, stand back!" Seville commanded.

            "What?"

            "Professor, where's Master Gipson?"

            Sylum didn't answer; he could no longer move and speak simultaneously.  He came in close and rested down on the eerily dull Werebane, wheezing and gathering breath.  When Seville asked again Sylum raised his index finger and waved the question off.

            "You're hurt, professor," Edrick asked, already moving to cast the cure, but Seville called him back again.

            "Eddie, stand back!"

            Sylum flashed hurt to Seville and finally recaptured enough oxygen.  His speech came in gasping bursts.

            "What's ... that ... about?"  But then he waved off any answer.  "Edrick ... Gipson ... needs you ... now."  It was barely more than a whisper.

            "He's hurt?!" Edrick exclaimed.

            "Yes ... bad ..." Sylum turned.  "We go..."

            Edrick looked at Seville nervously.

            "Wait," said the rogue.  "I'm coming."

            "Seville, you can't stand."

            "I can make myself stand."  Then Seville pulled Edrick down and spoke very quietly into his ear, "I'm not leaving you alone."

            Edrick shifted his face, rotated his neck slightly, and seemed confused, but he decided to trust a man who owed him his life.  The priest nodded and took Seville by the arm.

            "Help me," Edrick asked of Sylum, and the professor rolled his eyes and shook.

            "Sorry!" he uttered.  

            But Seville finally got to his feet with the priest's aid and staggered as best he could.  It turned out he could pace Sylum well enough, and they started they're sluggish trek to the fallen Knight of the Coast.

********************

            "Gipson!  Master Gipson!"  Edrick left the others behind the moment the gory battle scene and the body of Herrik Gipson came into view.  Doctor Sylum offered his shoulder to help the unsteady Seville along, but the rogue gave back a cold look and took to his own feet for better or worse.  It was mainly for the worse.

            Edrick ran haphazardly, giving little attention to the ground before him, and was caught funny by a sudden numbness in his right leg.  Looking down it appeared that it had been bleeding, but it felt like nothing.   After two more steps the tingling dead feeling caught him so off guard he tripped and fell to his chest, just at the knight's side.

            "Master Gipson!  Master Gipson!"

            The knight was motionless and his eyes were closed.  The wound was awful, like his entire left arm had been almost bitten off and that three lances had been thrust into his side, into his liver where the blood flowed black.  The blood no longer flowed, but either from clotting or because the unconscious knight had no more to bleed, Edrick couldn't say.  He studied the piercings a few moments longer and then clapped his hands together, with so much energy the first time he misgauged his balanced and fell to his side.  It was difficult with his numb leg.

            Edrick righted himself and rubbed his hands together; saying the words as calmly as possible and praying with his entire soul, but no magic entwined his fingers.  Sylum and Seville finally arrived after a long route around the dark pools of magenta, but they were quiet and respectful of the priest.  Crumbling under the terrible pressure of failure, tears came to Edrick's eyes and he shook his head as if defeated.  He tried again and again.  Was there nothing left?

            Then finally he screamed, "Aw, come on!" and the familiar but brilliant flash of power illuminated the dead gray around.  Then he muttered under his breath with absolute conviction, "Please," and laid his palms on Gipson's chest.  

            The bubbles transferred slowly at first, and then faster and faster until a complete waterfall of healing light was cascading from Edrick's hands.  His shoulders reared up and he tightened throughout as every chink of his soul streamed into the knight, each of his powers and prayers brought together in a single hope.  And then it stopped with a final surge of intensity and things were still once more.

            Two terrible beats of silence were all it took, and Gipson awoke with a frantic bout of coughing.  The wounded pits molded over and were gone and refreshing life percolated through him.  Resplendently joyous but unbearably tuckered, Edrick fell and lay on his back.  He couldn't take any more of this.  Despite the cure, Gipson didn't try to sit up.

            "You gonna make it, big guy?" said Seville with a sudden return of his smile.  By now Sylum had a better hold of his lungs.

            "It's the paralysis, it needs more time to fade.  I can still barely move my hands."

            Gipson just managed to turn his head and he looked Edrick straight in the face.

            "Master Edrick," he said with a weak kind of bow, "_That_ is a _good_ cure spell."  Then he rested his head back down on the soft earth.

            "I can't feel my leg," was Edrick's choice of answer.

            "It's the blood," Sylum responded.  "It paralyses.  It'll go away, in time.  Here, let's get Gipson against a tree."

            Seville and Sylum worked together and lay Gipson up against a dead stump.  Then Edrick crawled over and sat next to the knight, and next to him Sylum was more than happy to collapse.  And finally Seville plopped down last, and the four of them sat in a row, lucky to be alive.  

            "Have a bit of trouble, did ya?" Seville asked, surveying the scores of shriveled pink worms.

            "More than a bit," Gipson said humorously.  

            "Yeah, well, we had zombies and ghosts.  So don't be talking about no pink ... whatever they are.  They smell awful."

            "Wasn't at the top of my list, Seville, I was too worried about the biting.  I mean, what kind of creature has blood that paralyzes?!"

            "What kind of forest has zombies?!"

            "A haunted forest," Edrick said blankly.

            "I don't care, man," Seville said, "Something's not right about this place."

            Nobody spoke for a little while after that.  They were happy to be quiet and restful and entirely pathetic.  It was one pitiful, almost debilitated warrior right next to the other.  And completely against that, Seville suddenly got the most irrepressible grin on his face.

            "What are you smilin' at, boy?" shouted Gipson playfully.  "I could'a died."

            "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I can't help it."   Seville chuckled, looking at the other three, watching them sulk and bleed and pant.  "What a crappy day this has been!"

            "Finally some sense," Edrick said, smirking himself.

            "But you've got to admit," continued Seville, now with enough fervor to make hand gestures, "We are ... we're pretty good at this part."

            "This part?" asked Gipson.

            "You know.  Battles, pressure, action.  It's when nothing's happening that we suck.  But in times of need?  W_ow!_  We can really kick some ass."

            Then the four of them, even the gloomy professor Sylum, took to the most ridiculous laughter.  Half of it was just the euphoria of life, but something else there was too.  Maybe that malcontent Domino was wrong in the end.  Afterall, what were the chances of Sylum finding Edrick in that wide forest, or that Gipson could survive his wounds for so long, and that not a single zombie's stroke had fatally wounded Seville.  What were the chances of that?  Maybe things really were going to work out.

            "Now wait a minute, Seville," Gipson said, coming down from the joy and putting on a false visage of concern, "Are you saying you're a light warrior again?"

            "I'm saying that after coming out on top of this, I believe.  I mean, even _Eddie_ did something good."

            "Thanks, guy," said Edrick.

            "I believe it myself," Gipson confirmed, rallying it to the man next to him, which Edrick instantly picked up.

            "And I, too," he said.  Then the three looked to Sylum, the mysterious, obscure, but vital Doctor Sylum.  The professor realized he was singled out and faked a look of disgust before settling back into his usual scholarly haughtiness.

            "Well, I... I guess I do, as well."  They beamed at him.  Seville spoke.

            "Alright!  So let's do this thing."

            "Hold your horses, Seville" the knight said.  "Some of us still can't move yet!"

            "The path was already so thick.  It will be completely overgrown on the other side, I think," Edrick mused.

            "Then we'll cut a path," the rogue boosted on, "Mend the way and find this Temple of Fiends.  Now that I think about it, the professor's right.  That's exactly where the captor's would hide the princess.  It's impermeable to an army's invasion.  It's genius."

            "Then give us a half-hour to heal, lad" Gipson said again, "And then we'll head out."

            Seville seemed to be finally satiated after that so he returned to his back-sitting position and just talked of things.  What had happened to Edrick and him, what he should know about what happened to Gipson and Sylum, what they should expect in the future.  For once he wasn't look for change, or expecting it.  Despite how passionately he egged on the team, he wanted to stay right there and enjoy this moment of connection while it lasted in case it should never return.  He really wished Chuck Domino could be there to see them; the light warriors, whole again.

********************

            It was magnanimous.  The shining achievement of creepy architecture.  The temple was there, huge and unmistakable in a clearing just beyond the edge of the haunted forest.  It wasn't a particularly large building, not as castles of evil usually go, but every nook and cranny of each turret and every window and planting up and down its gaping mouth of a gate, with bars hanging down like teeth, added to the ominous aura it exhaled.  Although evening was falling and the land was fairly dark, this temple was covered in more than its share of blackness.  It was painted in preternatural shadow.  Shadow cast down from the solitary tuffet of gray clouds helming the highest steeple.  The grounds all around were long starved and dead, and were undisturbed.  Footsteps had not trodden the hard soil for ages.  But it was not empty.

            Two windows, second floor by their looks, glowed with moody candlelight.  The infrequent flickers, as if disturbed by some wind, caught their eyes in the twilight haze.  _Something_ was in there.  Something...

           Understanding where the real power in this kind of thing lie, three of them turned to Gipson, waiting for the command.  

            "Um ..." and he looked at the temple again.  "Well ... we'll try to find away in around back.  The front door wouldn't do any good, would it?"

            "Right," they said together and moved they're feet.  They moved like quiet silhouettes, shadows no more real than the daunting temple, over the field and around its stony walls.  They looked to each other solemnly.  They were tired, they were scared, they had had a really bad day.  But finally they were here; in what each of them was certain was the answer to their quest.

            No turning back now, at the beginning of night on the fourth day of the great journey, they hopped a ground level window, and entered the halls of fiends.


	12. Temple of Fiends

Lux Aeterna

by 

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 12 ~ Temple of Fiends

            They moved in silence and by the dim blue light of Herrik Gipson's dragon sword alone.  The knight took point, with Sylum following him and Seville and Edrick guarding the back flank together.  With nothing but _Drâco's_ tranquil aura to fight the blackness on either side, Seville came under the strangest feeling of comfort, as if he'd been placed miles and miles away in the catacombs under the Lux tavern and had not a care.  It was suddenly foreign, this yearning for homely welcome, but that made him want it more.  Now inside a palace of evil, he wanted to go home, and wondered if the others did as well.

            Dangerous this feeling was also.  The lulling glow of the long sword made apparent just how tired they each were.  The previous day had been long and gone late into the night, and this day was growing even longer.  The battle strains of the haunted forest ached in their arms and legs, the tumultuous pain of the wraith's presence had fallen past that comfort zone and it made Seville slightly dizzy, and Edrick also was especially drained, having summoned such a wealth of magical energy from within.  Doctor Sylum was weary from many things; the battle certainly, but also these undesirable feelings of anger in him.  He didn't trust this brief resolve of the light warriors, if the past days had been any indication of their cohesion.  There was a lot on the line in this temple, more than maybe even he knew at the time.  Only Gipson was still moving on stamina; not blinking every few seconds and trying to doze in this quiet.  His body was not so strong as he would wish it, but his mind was still there, his eyes alert, his ears perked, his sword ready.  The others were likely thinking of the goal, of a princess or completed journey.  But Herrik Gipson kept his brain where it belonged: on the corner up ahead and what might be around it.  They thought of results, he thought of fiends.

            "It's unreal..." Seville said as quietly under his breath as he could and still be heard.  He referred to the depths.

            What seemed a minor palace from its outer façade became a labyrinthine congestion of hallways, pillars, and arches.  Doors lead to nowhere or were locked, and halls also lead to nowhere.  The knight kept his eyes ahead of them, examining every black corner of every high ceiling, searching behind every fashioned suit of armor standing endless sentry along the wall, checking the frayed and gray tapestries, tapping the gargoyles to prove they were stone, and occasionally just stopping right out to follow a whisper in the dank, cryptic air.  The blue _Drâco_ lead the way as much as anything, and the knight moved very slowly and deliberately so as to quiet its eager, sweet song.

            "Unnatural to be sure..." Gipson finally answered.  He looked for stairs, something to take them up to that candlelight they'd seen from outside. 

The evil, the ghastly rancor saturated the ancient walls.  Looking down any long path was harsh on the mind, like the ridged arches were swirling, spiraling in the distance, and then expanding and contracting like an artery.  A heady, palpable sense of disorientation washed over them as they challenged the deeper dark caverns.  Everything was multiplied; every breath was as tiring as ten, every moment as long as an hour, and every step a million more away from home. When even the great Herrik Gipson got tingling chills up the spine, it was definitely best to get it over with as soon as possible, whichever way their caution would allow.

"Do you know anything more about this place, professor?" Edrick asked in a whisper, the amalgamation of tense and tired playing vexatious games with his concentration.

"There would be nothing but second-tier stories, myths within myths, since that's what this place used to be.  Just a myth..." Sylum tarried off a moment to study a nuanced gesture of Gipson's marching composure, a slight bending of the head forward, but then continued.  "Most stories say that no one ever returned to the temple after Lichern's defeat, afraid it was still filled with the worst of the demon's fiends.  Other stories say that those that ventured in never returned."

"What kind of fiends would those be?" the priest asked.

"Can't say for sure, no specifics are documented, even in tales.  Likely there is nothing here except..."

"And likely the forest isn't haunted," Seville added, to which Sylum was silent a moment.  Then he picked up his thought.

"...except what we came for."

"They would be prepared for us, wouldn't they?" Edrick was getting louder and stumbling over his words.  "There's going to be a defense, you think?

"Quiet, Edrick," Gipson said without turning back.  "Everybody, quiet."

Edrick's last words were left to hang on the atmosphere, new thoughts to tempt the nightmarish cavities of the brain.  Sudden death was felt to be around every corner, but at least for once the light warriors were most truly one, a single trembling but also steadfast body descending into surreal landscapes of uncharted evils; fear has that effect, one of togetherness.  They stopped when Gipson stopped, and he didn't stop until ducking into the unusually wide portal of the grand foyer.

The great double staircase ascended forever into a canopy of uncandled chandeliers wrapped in silver and rod-iron, and the sweeping balconies curved like stenciled ornaments around the breadth of the obsidian dome.  The towering columns supporting the stair were laced through with black silk that hung in dead arches from pillar to pillar.  And either side of the expansive room housed a mighty, ash-choked hearth long dormant but eternally terrible.  The mind's eye put the dimmest red glow in their gaping maws, hell fire waiting to breathe once more.  But most apparent, most violent in their being, were the three lofty doors leading away from the staircase.  Their surfaces were each etched with the same mural, a skeleton wreathed in billows of earth and fire, and also flesh and a tattered cloak.  One hand it held above the horned skull and the other it pinched in front of the rib cage as if it were casting a spell.  Giant they were, twenty feet high at least, and the room so much larger than that; everything finished in the not-so-gentle fashion of Cornerian gothic.  The dragon sword, so small now it seemed, fought to bring light to every nook, but all that responded, and in great brilliance were those three doors standing above them.  Standing and waiting.

"Found the way up," Seville dribbled out of his blank stare.

"It's amazing," Edrick followed, equally stunned.  They turned to Gipson, and he thought a moment with his eyes cast out.

"It's a big room," he said, and he spoke more to qualify the confused looks he received.  "Very open.  Dangerous."

Seville readied, Sylum shook his head meaninglessly, and Edrick gulped.  

"We'll go slowly and carefully.  And silently."  

Gipson sheathed _Drâco _and a more voluminous darkness crawled over.  He tested his vision against the foyer and the distant hearth had vanished, along with most of the stairway, but still almost glowingly real was the shimmer of the three doors, like sailor's beacons calling them through a storm, like constellations in summer sky, a north star.  

Gipson took his lightless longsword in hand and said, "It comes to it, gents.  Now or never.  Let's do it."

They got to the stairs, each conducting his own investigation of the surroundings and shuddering under his breath, but nothing came of it.  They relaxed their weapons a little and climbed the majestic staircase like travelers expecting bandits to waylay them at every turn of the road, but nothing came of that either.  They reached the bridge calmly and moved to the left door.

"What if it makes noise?" Edrick propounded.  But no one voiced a response and Gipson only shook it off.  He took the door by its handle firmly and pulled.  The collective sigh was frightfully audible when the massive stone panel swung free ghost-silent.  Seville even had to choke down a laugh.  They entered the west wing of the temple.

The chasmal depths of the palace were now truly boundless.  Somehow the second floor was built larger than the first, more endless passages and doorways set the light warriors' path into quandary.  In time, now well into the night, they even lowered their sense of caution, rearmed Gipson with the dragon sword, and just walked as nomads walk, lankily and simply.  Stepping into another hall, and then another after that, the inkling of something direly wrong with this situation grew.  They were lost, but it felt like they were lost clambering up and down the folds and crevices of a madman's brain.  They were tired and tireless at the same time.  That intangible tether, that lifeline that had brought them back together through fear and hope would begin to dissolve in the face of failure.  Leaving another empty room, Doctor Darrin Sylum was clenching his fists.

"There's nothing here," said an aggravated Seville, his voice perilously close to its normal level.

"We saw the candlelight," Gipson tried to defend, voice still low.

"Probably just some kind of trick the temple plays to lure travelers inside."  

"Even if that were true it wouldn't invite us here for nothing, would it?" The knight returned, still egging their feet down another path.  "We'll go a little longer." 

"I'm telling you there's nothing here, we've walked enough to cross over every hallway twice by now.  How do we know we haven't already been here before?  Everything looks the same!"

"I don't recognize it." Sylum added suddenly and then tacitly added a grunt of anger with his eyes.  "We've come all this way; it won't hurt to make sure.  I wouldn't want to risk the forest again this night, anyways."

"Well, then we should try to mark our path, because I swear we've been here before."  Seville looked around for something to alter.  "Here, this."

He went to a suit of armor guarding the hall and spun in on its base to run its shoulders perpendicular to the wall, accompanied by the piercing metallic screech.  

"We'll just do that in every..."

"Quiet!" Gipson exasperated under his breath, and then he dodged up against the stone wall and concealed the dragon sword as well as he could between its sheath and his leg.  The final echoes of metal and stone didn't drift into nothingness but into a sound of shuffling, the heavy motion of legs and feet, somewhere down the hall before them.  The knight wafted his hand twice, and the others joined him in hiding behind one of the steel suits.

"Happy now?" asked Gipson only half-seriously to Seville, and the rogue just rolled his eyes.  Still, he pulled both his daggers and hunched low to look along the line of the wall.

The uncautioned footsteps continued and grew louder, seeming to near a ninety-degree turn from the warriors' hallway.  The knight leaned forward and stretched his neck up to get the clearest look.  The sound of wide pant-legs rubbing together and of bare feet scratching along the stone floor became more and more distinct.  Seville caught eyes with Edrick and gave him a slight nod which the priest understood.  He recognized that sound, that lethargic but ceaseless march, and he started rubbing his palms together.

But even when the noise was clear enough to put the creatures just before them, nothing had turned the distant corner.  The disturbing movement of dead feet started to surround them, the slap of cold flesh popping on their ear drums, but not a single motion in sight.  

"What is this?" Edrick stammered quietly, pressing his palms to the sides of his head.

In answer Gipson freed _Drâco_ and swung a wide arc swiftly across the middle of the hall, and then did again just to be sure.

"Not invisible..." he said matter-of-factly and crouched low once again behind the suit of armor.  

"Then what?" questioned Edrick once more.

"Fake," Gipson said confidently.  "Just in your head."

"Sure?" Seville asked with an uneven slant of his eyebrows before he checked down both directions of the hallway.

"What else?" the knight responded.  He stood carefully and walked with a readied step towards the turn of the hall.  Seville bounced his daggers twice in his hands and stood to follow, discounting Gipson's waving him back.  Nearing the corner they even heard the anguished grunting of the undead, the useless breaths and lurching.  Yet it came from before and behind, so convincing that Seville even had to turn back once to be sure a zombie was not at that moment sighing on his neck.  He also gestured with his hands to keep either Edrick or Sylum checking with a stern eye behind them, and by the time he'd returned his watch to the path he could swear he felt the slime-ridden, clasping hands all around.  Painful tingles of suspense percolated through his veins, jittering up and down his spinal column, he tripped over one step into the next.  Gipson, far more headstrong, made no reactions.

They flattened against the wall and stilled; the sauntering feet were imminent, steps away, as real as the stone floor.  With a flash of eyes and a nod the knight conveyed his plans to Seville, and then looked around the corner, expecting full well to smash his face direct into a zombie's chest.  But then he spun back around with a complete mask of confusion and jumped around the corner.  Nothing.  Another passage barren of life.  Gipson sighed heavy.

The echoes of stone-clapping feet did not cease.  Instead they grew louder still.

"What is this?" Seville asked Gipson, forced to yell over the racket.  Before the knight could answer he twisted and swatted the air with his blade, jerked by a slithering feeling of the atmosphere on his back.  Nothing there.

"The temple!  It's in our heads!" returned the knight gruffly.  

"Then..." he paused and cocked his head.  "What the..."

"What is it?" He followed Seville's gaze.

"Eddie?"

Edrick and Sylum were gone; just a hall of statuesque armor and dark.

"Dr. Sylum?" Gipson called.  "Edrick?"

"_Eddie?_" followed Seville, and then he chased the knight down the hallway, to the very spot they'd been left waiting.  There were no signs of struggle, no signs of anything.  

"They're....gone..." the rogue mused.

"What foul..." but Gipson was then distracted by Seville tapping on his arm.

"Look!  The armors!"

Each of them for the entire run of the hall, as far as their eyes would take them, was turned ninety-degrees to match Seville's.  Gipson reared his long sword and slashed the nearest suit across the helm, and it rattled, limped, and fell, but stayed motionless after, along with the rest.  Gipson growled and sent two more to the cobbled ground with broad swipes, but to no illuminating effect.  The edges of awareness flickered and bulged around them as things were set into a still-life motion.  

"Dr. Sylum!  Edrick!" Gipson tried once more, and the tunnels about them answered back with freakish perversions of an echo.  The intonations shifted to higher registers, the inflections drooped on the back end, like a child's chant, mocking him.  He scraped the dragon blade across a stone wall, emitting cheery, effervescent purple sparks in the air, but the smoke didn't smell like steeled flint, but rather like rottenness, decay.  

"What the hell is this retched place?" Gipson asked the breezy, whispering currents forming around them.

"It gets better," answered Seville, pointing.  

As if Gipson had scored the flesh of a great beast, the stone wall was dripping with fluid, inky black, but warm as blood to Seville's cautious touch.  

"Wipe it off!" Gipson commanded directly and the rogue obeyed.  It had not felt particularly peculiar.  Seville raised his head to impart that fact when he was caught off by another confused look from the knight.

"Listen!" Gipson said.  "The sounds..."

The sound had died almost completely away, down to the solitary footsteps of a single brave undead, somewhere in the vacuous black.  But somehow it was the more imperative a noise, and the two men, enthralled with its domineering presence, its arrogant quality, struck out again at the surroundings; searching for it, bent on its destruction.  This maddening essence kettle-drummed their ears; every step a cacophony of wrenching demons, wailing and gnashing, but somehow not even there at all.  Gipson's throat snapped open and shut; he twisted for balance, and then the stone floor came up and hit him in the face.  

Seville stomped dizzily down a corridor, which heaved greatly to and fro like a sailed vessel in a tempest.  The ceiling bounced; barreled, then arched and flattened, then plunged.  His bearing upended, spiraled until he stood on the walls and lost his footing into hungry tapestries.  Knotted textile smothered his skin; harsh abrasions like the fibers were knives.  His face met that of a painted one in the velvet cloth, like his own only crying.  

No, weeping.  

No, yelling and disintegrating into flecks of incandescent powder that sifted over the air towards the sky like dazzling stars.  The particles sparkled and taunted him and he pressed up and reached, reached miles longer than his arms could surmise, though the exertion kept the liquids in skull churning like breaking waves on a cataract.  He was neither lifting nor falling, but not sitting or floating either.  He was _being_.  

Being one versus this universe, this small collection of dust in the great nothing.  The purple glitters above him, below him, within him, shuttled into lines and figures, spheres and cubes, prisms of every light distorted into singularities of impact.  Then he was lost to the opaque blackness, feelings detached, senses stifled; a being, a robot, a drone consciousness somewhere between existences; somewhere between the worlds.  Again the amethyst candles moved, moved in hive-minded configurations, moved in serpentine ribbons into figures both intimate and impossibly huge.  So big the small cavity of his cranium could not fit around them and understand.  Figures terrible and breathing; alive.

Hedonistic ritual fire fell in tears from mighty pagans and landed Armageddons on the burnt soils of this world, that world, all worlds.  Each laughing heathen danced about the purple flame and beat the cat-skins to staggering triplet rhythms.  He pilfered oceans of knowledge from the liquid smoke, was thrust into the breadth of the pyre and forced like a diviner to gaze within and judge humanity.  Among the element, tinder scorching away his body speck at a time, he fumbled the globes, the many planets of being, jostled them like a blind prophet.  The tribesman rose in trills of laughter and dipped him deeper into awareness, where the satellites encapsulated him, and he was quartered by their gravity.  Each planet matched the rare fire in hues of crimson and emerald sequins that ran in marathons about the wide bellies of the orb.  The laughing rose into murderous hilarity as the planets failed, each its own apocalypse to contend with, burned and slashed away to nothing by the final design of all things.

He resisted, struggled against the clamoring hands, tried to yell at them and swallow them away, pull them into the heat and let them see their hubris, but the strength of more divided him from revelation and left him to cold.  He lay paralyzed at the image of trembling children and cursing mothers as the final ritual began, where soft blood was delivered up to the will of ancients and amends were put to rest, and soon the hair of every happy man and pouting woman was as purple of evil as all else, and the dirt on his legs, feet, and hands turned gray.  The medicine man approached and mourned the dead planet, blessed this divination of flame, and circled the being.  He was scared, so amazingly scared; then he sunk to bowels of darkness deeper than ever before thought real as the shaman quaked his throat and sang a dirge of such terror it is hard to describe in the language of man.

********************

"Uhhh..." was Seville's waking moan, battling the invisible iron weights that must have been pulling down his eyelids, or his whole head for that matter.  His hair, slinking around his face, was the first he saw as his vision focused.  Then his legs and chest came into view.  Licking his lips they felt raw and puffy, and his skin burned lightly down to his chin, like acne scars.  His head felt empty; he couldn't remember anything; just a series of long hallways, suits of armor, and then a heavy funk.  

He fingered around for the memories in his mind, and they came in mosaic amalgamations like his sight.  He remembered that Sylum and Edrick had vanished like nothing, that Gipson had trailed off in his grunting anger and collapsed onto the floor.  He remembered trying to run to the knight and getting lost on the way, stuporing into the unknown wings of the temple with only an ounce of brain.  He fell, he thought, fell into a mountain of clothing, but he wasn't certain.  He could dig no deeper, and doing so only turned up gray mist like that in his orb of earth.

Finally, Seville sat up and risked his surroundings, quick to find he could barely move.

"What the..." he said quietly and jerked around with his legs, which he discovered were bound very tightly.  His arms also were tied behind, attached to a chair he couldn't escape.  

"Welcome back," came a familiar voice.

"What?!  Ow!" The moment he raised his voice the most splitting, jarring pain shot from one side to the other of his skull.  For sure it would burst and spill out with enough pain to kill another, he thought for that one intense moment, but it dwindled then to a numbing reminder of what had been.  He sucked air in and out.

"Might want to keep your voice down," that same familiar squeak informed.  Why had it not occurred to him to look, Seville wondered, twisting his rust-stiff neck to his right to find his three companions lined up with him, each equally bound.  

Edrick, next to him and clearly the one who had spoken, seemed dim but healthy, while Gipson and Sylum wore pained faces, empathetic faces, showing they'd been there before.  Their eyes, Gipson's and Sylum's, were held at a squint, and after only moments Seville came to realize why: even the gentle, wavering torchlight hurt inside his head.  The pain ebbed and flowed, and at peak it was like ratcheting bones in his brain.

"Everything hurts..." he offered as quietly as he could and still be voicing.  

"Tell me about it," Gipson answered just as unenthusiastically, and then he asked, "Any good with ropes?"

"'Course I am, but don't know if I can concentrate."

"You can try," Gipson matter-of-facted.

"I can try," Seville gave back and fidgeted for a grip on the circulation-robbing rope enjoining his wrists.  Then he chose, for once, to look around.

Though he regretted it immediately.  The glow of the four torches throbbed brighter as his eyes swayed from side to side, the light seeming to lance into his retinas like the sharp beams of sun as it rose over distant mountains.  The room was small and windowless; a dungeon room most likely, but void of any particular clues like shackles or old blood.  Before the four, pushed against the opposite wall, was an unburdened wooden table.  To his front right a path opened and lead a little distance to a metal door with no apparent lock from the inside; making the dungeon scenario more clear.  Discerning what he could from a squinted looking-over, the stonework was crypt-dry; this piece not supporting the hypothesis.  And that was all, plain and simple.

"Eh..." Seville said, having little luck with the rope bindings.  "What happened back there?  What happened to you Eddie?  Professor?"

"I already told you; the temple." Gipson answered first.

"We don't know that for sure," entered Doctor Sylum, "But it's as good a guess as we've got."  He scrunched his eyes as another vibration of hurt waved by, then he sighed.  "Everything I know about myths has been proven fact so far.  I'd say it's a reasonable assumption then that we can take it to the next level."

"Next level?" asked Seville.

"You're better than that, Seville, think about it."

"Man, I don't wanna think about anything.  It hurts."

"If this is indeed a palace built by the dark fiend Lichern, a demon, a devil, then he would have infused every last brick and mortar with evil."

"Well, that sounds like our luck."

"Yes, it does.  And if he can infect an, at the time, nonexistent forest posthumously then I wouldn't put it past him to curse this place.  These walls ... they're just built of evil; built of madness."

"So I suppose that's what's with the headache?  _Ow!_"  Another crippling whelp, and Seville noticed as he righted himself Edrick watching childishly.  "Man, why isn't anything wrong with you?"

"Don't know, but I like it."  Edrick did his best to give a friendly smile, but the chills in his ribs and the tension on his brow was dominant.  The way he said it, in fact, completely lost all effect.

Seville had more questions but feared to ask them, not for their content, but for the welfare of his aching mind.  Even his thoughts were not free.  They didn't hurt but always there was something to them, a tickle, a buzz he couldn't ignore.  Trying to shut off his brain only brought the material to it faster and brighter.  He was so tired of pain; never light it seemed, never that soft pumping like on a sliced finger, the kind you can almost enjoy for its frailty.  No, always agony, always anguish, always so severe.  The thoughts that chiseled through his gray matter were like scars: the day of the centennial when he thought he was sure to die, the wraith in the forest, the disgusting zombies, the wild hallucinations of the temple, the headaches.  He wondered if it was something you got used to, and considered asked Gipson, but chose instead to get on with it.  The fewer words the better.

"So, what's going on again?  Are we like ... escaping, or what?  How'd we get tied up in the first place?  What time is it?"

"Don't know.  Doesn't look like it.  Don't know.  And don't know."  Sylum's answers.

"It is very early morning," responded Gipson.  "Between one and two."  

The three others rotated in watch him qualify with the deductive information, but he had nothing else to say.

"One day you're gonna have to tell me how you do that, big guy," said Seville.

"It takes a lot of work."

"Then don't tell me now.  Damn!"  

"What's that?" asked Edrick in an annoyingly normal voice.  Seville visibly thrust his fingers out from the knots on his wrists and then let them limp down and rest.

"Can't get it," Seville explained, "These ropes aren't working unaided."

"An enchantment?" asked the priest.

"Somethin'..."

"Are you not sure?" Gipson questioned.

"Dude, I don't know!  Ow!"

"Enchantments mean wizards," the knight said and then finished it in return to the waiting eyes he got.  "I hate wizards."

"It's certainly looking that we can rule out the random creep theory," said Seville.

"Nothing says a powerful wizard can't also be a random creep.  Just look at Chuck Domino," Edrick suggested.

"Damn!" cursed the rogue.

"_Seville_, watch it with the mouth!" the priest charged.

"We forgot to kill Domino."

"What?!"

"I meant to do that today, or technically yesterday, but you know what I mean.  We forgot to kill Domino."

"I don't think that's the right course of action," said Edrick.

"If _somebody_ hadn't been in such a hurry!" Seville chastised, staring as menacingly as he could with half closed eyes at Sylum.  The professor looked at him and shook his head.

"If I hadn't been in such a hurry we might very well still be in Jrist, brooding like ownerless puppies in that tavern.  If Princess Moira is somewhere in this temple then you could actually thank Domino for getting you here."

"I'll thank him with my dagger," Seville spouted, even through the dismal ache in his head.  "If this is the place we've been looking for, then on the way back we've got to remember to kill Chuck Domino."

"And where is your dagger?" rang in Gipson with an odd question.

"What?" Seville responded mindlessly and looked down, realizing that his weapons were, of course, gone.  "_Shit!_"

"_Seville!_" exasperated Edrick.

"What?!  Ow!"

"Can the swearing!  What's this you were telling me about change earlier?"

"Change?" broke in Herrik Gipson.

"Drop it, big guy.  Eddie, can't this wait until after we save the world?"

"Kind of destroys the point, don't you think?" Edrick said.

"No ... well, yes, but ... listen, I have a headache, we'll worry about changing later, okay?" declared Seville, wishing so much that he could just hold his forehead in his palms.  He couldn't decide what hurt more: his brain or the inability to comfort it.

"That's what people who don't change say," the priest summed up and sulked with a sigh.

"Words after your own heart, Master Gipson.  Eddie is always full of surprises."

Gipson said nothing right away; he didn't join the back and forth of Seville and Edrick.  Instead he mused a moment, thought in the silence, and then practiced something it felt like he hadn't done for years, knowing full well it had been but a day.  He smiled.  His favorite one; that sad salute to hope and loss.  Then he said, "Yes.  He's right, you know."

The timing gave pace to Seville's own slow answer. 

"Yeah, I know."

Sylum didn't seem to be having it, he said, "What are these semantics?  Change?"

"Don't worry about it, Professor.  A lesson for another day, I think."

"And what day is that?" Edrick persisted.

"Would you drop it?  One day.  It's gonna happen one day.  And I can't say what'll happen when it does 'cept that I can't wait to find out.  That's all I know and all I can know."

"Fine, we'll talk about it later."

"Finally..."

At last it was left at that, and having run out of things to say and becoming too fatigued by the stress of the unfortunate three, a calm, unburdened quiet followed.  Herrik Gipson most appreciated the silence so that he could keep his ears on whatever might perk them, especially directed for outside noises, though judging by how even soft voices rebounded off the stone, the room was effectively soundproof.  What nightmares he had seen in his last moments before the blackness settled over!  Now if only he could remember them or did he even want to?  For possibly the first time in his life, for the first time he could recollect over the whole course of rigorous adventures he'd known, Gipson was tired.  Not like that of creaking bones or a weakened lung capacity, no, he felt full-on beat; mentally and physically.  He fought against it, prohibited it, mind-over-matter, like he usually did, but this time it showed him little rejuvenating caress.  His body would have no more.

Darrin Sylum didn't know what to think.  That morning he had been furious enough to end the world himself, rash enough to thrust his group into the deathly peril of the haunted forest, and then after that he was just confused.  He saw his final hope at life's success break away and melt into the dark tendrils of the woods, he spouted his fears to this knight, this man without a single empathetic concern, and he choked on gulps of hatred.  But then, something good happened, a battle won, bonds restored, _greatness_.  But now the confusion crept in again; confusion and suspicions of failure.  He could not fail again, _would not_ fail again.  If there was something in this world for him, and for each day after the first he had doubted that more and more, it was going to be in this temple.

Edrick Valance chewed on his bottom lip for the duration, wishing desperately to bide away his nervousness with random hand gestures like usual, and painfully unable to do so.  He kept his eyes occupied on the maze of fissures lining the bricks from floor to ceiling, not wanting to commit to anymore speech.  Like the rest he was lost in his thoughts, but only his thoughts were about someone else; about his good friend and project, Seville.  He sought deep inside for what it was he was trying to accomplish, what it was that he thought he could accomplish, and what it was that was out of his hands.  This kid, Seville, this young man, this rogue; what could he teach him now that he hadn't already tried and failed to teach him.  Edrick successfully put his concern on someone else; he cared little for his fate in this rank palace, but only desired that Seville return to Corneria a changed man seeking a finer path.  If nothing else he wanted that.

Seville just wanted something to happen...

********************

"Hey, guys," Seville breathed, stirring the others from their droning trances.  Sylum and Gipson were able to blink a few times and snap back into the moment but Edrick had to shake himself awake.  Not much time had passed, but time quickly lost meaning in the meager stone room.

"What's that?" Gipson answered.

"D'you see that?" Seville asked them, carefully nodding his head towards the direction of the table.

"See what?" Edrick wanted to know, discovering how difficult it was to rub his eyes without hands.  

"Under the table."

Gipson pressed his eagle eyes into the flickering shadows of the table but didn't see anything more than that.  Judging by the lost expressions of the priest and scholar, they hadn't seen anything either.

"Where?" Gipson asked authoritatively.

"It's gone now, just give it a second."

"Give what a second, Seville?" Edrick said.  "What is it?"

"I couldn't tell..." Seville started and then trailed off as he concentrated his sight.  His vision, slacking off into dreamlike states had for just the briefest glimpse caught sight of something before them under the table, some creature, he thought, but now couldn't be sure.  Knowing the temple's propensity to illusions, he feared it was more games inside of his head.  "Some kind of creature I think it was, but barely more than a shadow.  And quick too, I'm lucky I saw it."

"_If_ you saw it," Sylum clarified, those analytical urges ever-present.

"I saw it..." defied Seville, faking his certainty.  For an instant he perceived an ethereal drift of something like a forearm, only small and smooth, black, but then it returned to invisibility within the shadow.  If only his eyes were not so tired, he thought, not realizing that he was trying to scoot the confining chair forward, but it was too tightly jammed in a ridge on the ground.  

"Not seein' anything, Seville..." Edrick said playfully.

"Yeah," said Seville, willing to concede some failure to his closest friend.  "Maybe your right."  He sighed.

"No." Gipson interrupted.  "There."

They looked closer and this time could not mistake the trailing fragmentation of the light as the translucent being hunkered under the table.  Amoeba-like, its form was too indistinct to follow, but its movement was apparent, crawling, floating, slithering, whatever it did, from one table leg to the next, almost as if it were afraid to bear the ground beyond its low ceiling.  Without a recognizable head it certainly seemed eyeless, but still it felt like the thing was watching.  Trickling tension spiked on the warrior's backs, that rare, sixth-sensual kind that can only be described as a feeling, a hunch, an instinct.  Gipson, living on his instincts for all his remembered life, tensed and strained against the difficult bonds.  He didn't trust it.

"What is it, Master Gipson?" Edrick asked.  The transfixed knight took a few seconds to hear and comprehend the question.

"Dunno..." was all he could give back.

The spectral apparition rested from its dance, and motionless only the barest outline of its presence could be detected.  And then, not detected.

"Is it gone?"

They'd each seen it differently.  Gipson and Sylum would swear the thing had dissolved into the cold floor, but Seville and Edrick would propose it had evaporated into the air.

"Eh," Seville said, following with a matter-of-fact inflection, "I'm tired of this."

"You don't think we've just been left to starve to death?"  The priest asked.

"Actually, I hadn't thought of it.  Thanks a bunch," the rogue said.

"Did you recognize anything in the creature, Master Gipson?" Sylum questioned of the knight.

"...It is unlike anything I've seen.  Certain undead: ghosts, wraiths, those kind, share the incorporeal quality, but are unable to fade to nothingness.  This is something new to me," an idea that seemed to shake Gipson a small bit.

"And what about those pink things from the forest?  I forgot to ask."

"Those are also new to me, but I've met a close cousin I believe.  _Crawls_ the townsfolk called them, and they were similarly built, but purple and minus the acidic slash paralytic blood.  Only about half as ferocious but the same basic creature.  We've got a new breed on our hands; names anyone?"

"_Crawls_ you said they were called?" Seville asked, game for the distraction.

"The weaker breed, yes."

"Then only one name would apply..."

"...and that is..."

"_Creeps_, of course."  Seville looked to Gipson, interested to know whether his first attempt at the knight's game was a success.  But Gipson barely had the chance to open his mouth.

"There!" shouted Edrick, catapulting injuries through the skulls of his companions.  Lifting their heads, they saw the creature had returned, only fleshed out and ready.

The shape was unlike any conception they had made of it in their thoughts: humanoid for certain, very short and hunched, with two jagged antennae breached like horns from his head and scurrying across the ground frantically.  The slender, pygmy arms and legs matched with the engorged head and bulgy abdomen split its frame between appearances of a child and a bug.  Its dainty hands featured sharp spire-like fingers.  Its coin eyes were bright yellow.  But few of these things did the light warriors notice before the horrific emptiness of its hue.  Save the two exceptions in its head, the thing was the most lusterless, complete, and absolute black.  So much so that the torchlight was absorbed by it instead of reflected.

"Gipson?"

"Nothing..."

The dark child was silent, impossibly silent.  Skittering from table leg to table leg made no sound, nor did the incessant scraping of the antennae across the ground.  It altered its ominous gaze from person to person, and occasionally rocked its head up and back like it was sniffing.  Then quickly, in short bestial hops and lunges it charged to just as quickly halt at Sylum's feet, eyeing them through its lidless orbs like they were riches.  Bound both together and to each chair leg, Sylum couldn't hardly move his feet to avoid it.

            The creature jumped to his lap and studied intensely; slathering its two feelers over everything they could reach.  Like a cat on unsure footing the thing dug its claws into its stance, and the professor sucked in his breath.  The antennae slowed to a stop, but the thing stayed, still eerily quiet.  Its heavy eyes were so full and pressing it seemed to be looking through Sylum, looking into his chest.  

            "Uhhh.....little help...." Sylum quivered and directly the creature leapt from Sylum's lap and pranced into Gipson's.  The knight lowered one brow and glowered at the small thing, but it only concerned itself with the antenna rub-down and a long look through Gipson's ribs.  

            "Pardon me, gents," Gipson said and then inhaled a great bulk and screamed, "Back!"

            The crisp noise threw a shockwave into Seville's and Sylum's head, and self-inflected Gipson's as well, but the black monster did back away, dropped to the ground and capered a bit from leg to leg before continuing its search.  It jumped into Edrick's lap in a swoop.

            "Ah!" the priest cried and gulped down his tension.  The creature commenced its routine but paused almost instantly.  Stinging sweat flowed into Edrick's eye, and with only blinking to pat it away, the black creature become a garbled vision.  To what extent its feelings could be guessed it seemed confused, perhaps even aggravated.  It stared at Edrick's chest, hopping and cocking its head in violent jerks.  The priest's chest heaved up and down, the crests so wide it was impressive his ribcage didn't split.  The monster butt its head into Edrick and then started grinding its smooth black cranium into the solar plexus.  Edrick coughed twice and then began to gasp for air.

            "Back!" he squeaked with his massively reduced lungpower.  "Back!"

            The dark little thing however was not intimidated.  It was angry now, pummeling its skull into Edrick's chest and thrashing the air with its clawed fingers.  Not once did it truly hurt the young man, never did those claws strike, but appeared content to maintain that action forever.  

            "Back!" Gipson shouted this time, facing the migraine to help the cleric, but not even his voice could ward the monster.  

            Nearing hyperventilation and squirming through every centimeter he could muster, Edrick wailed, "What is this?!"  He tried to knock it sideways with a curved swipe of his head and made only the thinnest contact.  Again it didn't respond.  "Back!  Back!  Back!"  

Edrick's final call was punctuated by a metal and stone strum resounding from every corner of the room and originating from the cell door that had suddenly lumbered open.  The black creature reacted swiftly with a turn of the head and a moment's thought, and then it pounced to the floor and slumped away into nothingness; gone like it had never been.  Screeching just like something in want of centuries of use should, the door very tediously wedged over to the wall and hit it with another deafening clang.  Despite vibrating aches potent enough to send feelings to the tip of every strand of hair on his head, Gipson remained with alert eyes and will, ready for whatever might come from the long awaited portal.

The footsteps were common and unlabored, and they carried in an odd-looking young man with peppered hair wearing a sky blue t-shirt and black slacks.

"Domino!" shouted Seville and Gipson simultaneously, and both winced at the flushing pain.

Chuck Domino did not look at them, in fact, he was little interested in looking at anything.  In his arms he held a wide, bulky wooden box that he quickly set down on the table and scooted to the center.  The flat side facing the warriors bore a single hole a few inches across with a black mesh cloth attached from the inside.  The box itself was poorly constructed, with nail heads jutting visibly out and adjacent sides lining up awkwardly.  Domino took in hand one of the wooden dowels from his belt and made three quick gestures over the box with it.  Then he replaced the dowel.

"Domino!" Edrick pronounced.

"Quiet..." Domino responded, very coolly and lowly.  Each of the warriors was again surprised at how low the voice from this weasel of a man bellowed.  

"I'm disgusted you have the nerve to show your face around us again!"  Seville said as a threat.  Domino took a beat from his examination of the shabby wooden box and looked up.

"Ah, what're you gonna do?  Attack me?"

"What do you want from us?" pressed Seville.

"Quiet," Domino answered and returned to inspecting something on the backside of the box.  More than once he used others of the dowels on his belt.

"What's going on here?" Gipson asked.  Domino did not respond.

"I said what's going on here?" the knight ferociously demanded this time.  The black mage stopped what he was doing and squeezed his brows together, then his shoulders sagged.

"Unfortunately, I conjecture that your...less than perspicacious wit will not consummately cognize the imperforate aim of our present employment.  Ergo, I will capitulate that annotation for an impending....time."

"Damn it!  Speak common for once!" commanded Gipson.

"That I do, but I elect expatiation via knowledgeable means, in lieu of barbarous ones."

Gipson grunted with anger and noticeably raged against the magical ropes, but their spell could not be undone.  It just had to be a wizard!

"Did you kidnap the princess?" Sylum thought to ask, very calmly but directly.

"I did not," defended Domino, mimicking Sylum's manner and without the slightest conciliatory pause.

"Do you know who did?" followed Sylum summarily, like a lawyer to a witness.

"Yes, I do."

"And who is that?" The professor continued.

"He is not an acquaintance of yours."

"_Who is it?!_" Gipson barked, his agitation palpable.  Again Domino stopped to squint and rub his forehead, combined with a thick exhalation.  He looked up.

"If...said antagonist is not...constituent of your luminary lexicon then what consequence, I ask, is it that you be compelled to lucubrate the appellation of said antagonist?"

Gipson belted out a growl, but nothing could come of it.  Domino raised his eyebrows and stared as if he were truly awaiting a response.  Finally, he returned to the wooden box.

"So, would it be appropriate to assume that the kidnapper is not a Cornerian?"  Sylum asked, hoping to return to the intellectual atmosphere where Domino was most charitable.  He flashed a condescending and cautionary glance to the knight beside him.  

"Not appropriate, no, but I'll resign and consent."

"And who are you to him?"

"Worker bee."

"And..."

"Chuck Domino the grunt?  He's lying!"  Seville accused, but Sylum retorted contiguously and with not-so-subtle fierceness.

"That is not something that we can control."  It was short and abrasive.  Seville went quiet obediently.  Sylum continued, "How many in the hive, Chuck?"

"Just three."  Domino's speech got softer in time and was aimed into the body of the box.  His interest in the scene was almost humorously nonexistent.

"You, him, and who?"

"Queen Bee."

"The princess..." Edrick mused and whispered.  Sylum nodded to him.

"Is the princess here?"

"She is, only not as you envisage."

"How..."

"If you hurt her..." started Gipson with a threat but he smartly cut if off.  Domino once more caressed the folds over the bridge of his nose, but saved any comments he might have had for the knight.  Another angry look passed from scholar to warrior.

"How not, Chuck?" Sylum asked.

"Pass."  

The professor sighed.

"Alright, moving on: are the motives political?"

"The motives are everything."

Sylum sighed again and scorned the cryptic answer.

"Are _we_ part of those motives."

"_Everything_ is part of those motives." 

From the corner of his own eyes, Sylum saw Seville roll his.

"Fine," Sylum said.  "What is going to happen next?"

"Patience, doctor," said Domino.  "Vigilance."

"Can you tell me more specifically our part in this?"

"Shhhh…" Domino hissed to quell the interrogation.  "Enough."

The black mage took yet another dowel from his belt and made a final pass around the four corners of the wooden box and then he performed five languid messy gestures in the air and resheathed the stick.  He passed over the box with one final investigation from all sides and then walked towards the door.

            "That's it!" Gipson exclaimed.  Domino, of course, paused and rubbed his now sweat-laden forehead.  He looked at the knight and shook his head very slightly, like one of modest disbelief.

"Yep, that's it!" he said and turned back to the door.

"We managed to catch your article," Seville broke in and informed the mage just as he was reaching for the handlebar.

"Yeah, worked like a charm," Domino responded, superlatively quiet.

"Uh huh.  You know, I promised my friends that I would kill you for it."  But Domino refused to dignify that, and simply left.  The hard iron door screamed to a shut and they were alone again.

151


	13. The Wooden Box

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I ~ The Meager

Chapter 13 ~ The Wooden Box

            "So…" said Seville, realizing in the renewed silence how badly his arms and legs ached from remaining in their restricted positions.  "Wooden box…"

            "_Magical_ wooden box…" Gipson clarified just this side of angrily.  "We'll probably be dead very soon."

            "Don't say that!" Edrick insisted.

            "No," offered Sylum.  "They want something of us.  Else, Domino would have done away with us in seconds.  There's something to this."

            "Oh, is that a good or a bad thing?" Edrick stammered.  

            "Well, Eddie, we ain't dead yet," Seville on the far left suggested, but knew he had little power to comfort the peevish priest in such extreme times.  So for fun, he ran the other way.  "_Yet_ being the important word choice."

            "Quiet, Seville."

            "Then you gimme somethin' to do," he said pathetically.  "Man, this sucks!"

            "No, seriously, quiet.  D'you hear that?"

            A distinct sound of crackling emitted from the wooden box, like someone trying to step carefully through dried tree branches, and playing over that a constant airy, buzzing sound.  Then the sound rose and fell in stronger pulses, the coming and going of a flying beetle, but soon leveled out and featured only the dynamic popping noises.  The volume oscillated again, and by then it was unavoidable.

            "Got any ideas, Professor?" The rogue implored.

            "Magic is not my area of study, especially not something as obscure as this."

"Master?"

"…I hate wizards!" Gipson stated once more.

"Noted.  Should I even ask, Eddie?"

"Hey!  I know magic…" the priest defended before turning abruptly.  "Not that I know anything about this."

"Noted."

"Detect anything particularly offensive?" Sylum entreated to the priest.

"What powers of detection I _do_ have are completely muddled in this place.  Can't distinguish evil when everything around you is evil."

Rising and falling, the crisp snapping became less intervallic and thinner.

"What did Domino mean, Professor Sylum?  About the princess not being here how we…envisage was it?"  Edrick asked.

"Hard to say.  If he were lying I don't think he would have been evasive when he was, and yet if he was telling the truth, as it seems to me, then he's being too cryptic to decode."

"If you had a guess?"  Seville this time.

"Well…" the professor thought on it for a moment, and the others used the same moment to reflect on the ominous noise of the box.  "What exactly is it that we we're expecting?"

The question functionally flabbergasted them.  Seville answered first.

"You know, I don't think I ever really thought about it."

"Or I," added Edrick.

"Heh," Seville laughed, "Just what kind of light warriors are we supposed to be?  What about you, Master Gipson?"

The knight paced his answer carefully.

"Of course, I didn't know where we would find her; we we're operating on a metaphysical hunch, but, I knew what it was going to look like.  The room they kept her in would be small.  Small and dark, either a closet or old stable, I figured.  Either way, you could expect something of general disrepair and likely damp.  She would have been bound and gagged originally, but by now they probably let her go without that as long as she remained tied up while someone wasn't able to watch her and as long as she stayed quiet.  They would have beat her for crying, of course, and food and water would have been very slim, just enough to survive.  Rape was almost certain.  If ransom was the motive then perhaps they would have been more giving with food and more sparing with brutality, but that is an unlikely motive given the circumstances of the kidnapping.  No, I…I pictured little hope…"

Nobody responded.  The crackling noises of the box rattled off one wall to the next but the sounds had drained away from the warriors' concern and drifted off into the atmosphere.  Gipson inserted final words.

"So, yes, I've thought about it."

"That's…" Edrick started to say, but his thoughts trailed off.  Seville seemed to pick up on where he was headed.

"For four days now," he said.  "That's been our fault."

"No," reprimanded Gipson.  "If it were anybody's fault it would be the kidnappers'.  We're not to blame."

"Besides, I don't think that's the case here," said a very even-voiced Sylum.  "It's not the impression I got from Domino."

"Well, yeah, it's not that…" Seville continued on his own thought, glancing at Edrick to see that he was following the right trail.  "The point is: we just haven't been taking this seriously.  Making jokes around the campfire, fighting, disbanding…that's all stupid right now.  We've gotta keep looking towards the goal.  Nothing is on our side here, especially not time."

"This is definitely the most conclusive truth as to which one of us here is actually a warrior, and the other three who are just the meager."  Edrick stated.  "You should've kept us in line, Master Gipson."

"We've all done what we can, never forget that.  Now, what can we _still_ do?"  Gipson charged them, and they each let it toss in their too tired minds.  "Think about it!  The princess is here…_here!_  We're so close now!  There is nothing meager about any of you, and I can say already that this is the greatest adventure of my life, these four simple days and nights.  We can do it!"    

"Nothing.  Unless we can get out of these damn chairs, we can do nothing."

"Then that's what we work on, Seville."  

The rogue looked to his feet and then away, and he sighed.

"Yes, I know, but that is hopeless.  These are magical bindings."

"I am not going to die tied to a chair."

"I've told you," Darrin Sylum interrupted, "They are not going to just kill us, I am certain of that.  Domino's not a barbarian, or even a warrior for that matter, he's a politician, and I'm sure he works for one.  And if this is politics it means they have a use for us; politicians always _want_ something, and from the sounds of it on what we got from Domino, they've got quite a plan.  We can expect a proposition."

The new outlook had to settle on them a moment.

"Well, then, we won't take it.  Screw'em!"  Seville pronounced.  

"That's right!" Edrick said proudly.

"It, eh…it might not be that easy, Edrick." Offered the professor, remaining calm.  "We're strapped to chairs, have no weapons, we're in pitiful condition, and nobody knows where we are.  Therefore, we've got absolutely no power.  We've got nothing to bargain with."

"They will threaten the princess?" asked Gipson.

"Maybe, again it's hard to say.  Based on your predictions I would say yes, but the mage seemed to suggest a different situation.  In truth, I can't make any guess as to what capacity the princess maintains in this temple.  Regardless, if not the princess, they can easily threaten us.  Like I said, we're very effectively tied up right now, not hard to slit our throats.  Domino wouldn't even have to do that."

The knight nodded with understanding and said as an afterthought, "…I hate wizards…"

"They're not going up on my list," Sylum finished; the first friendly thing he'd said in days.

"So, what then?" Seville asked amidst the opportunity.  "We can't just agree to whatever mad thing they've got planned for us."

And we're it not for the heady tension already flowing around betwixt the eerie soundtrack and desperate words; all three of the others would have noticed Sylum pause on his answer, giving it a foreign thought, but then he spoke as he had before.

"Well, I suppose not much has really changed.  We'll play the diplomacy by ear, avoid their suggestions, try to get out of these constraints, and if at all possible get our weapons.  But the overall goal remains the same: safely obtain the princess and kill her captors."  Then, on another surprising up-note, "We'll leave Domino to you if you want him."

Seville also spoke through original sentiments, "I'll do what seems best to do at the time.  Threatening Domino doesn't mean anything when the anger builds for stupid reasons.  I wasn't taking things seriously then, but I am now.  I'll just try to do what's right."

"That's excellent to hear," Gipson affirmed.

"Now _that_, " said Edrick, "Sounds like change."

"Piece by piece, Eddie, piece by piece."

"We'll be one!" the knight exclaimed.

Had a further minute passed they would have returned to understanding how little they could do tied to chairs and locked inside a small dungeon room, but before that perilous minute could saunter by the wooden box went silent after an odd bird-like chirrup and a thump.  Just as quickly the breathy tones returned with a somehow deeper mood behind them; it felt closer, more intimate.  Then the box spoke.

"Welcome."

The voice had an alien, fluidic quality, so potent that it seemed to rub over them and massage their skin.  It wasn't loud or even forceful, but remarkably full and deep.  That it came from the box was certain.

"Welcome…" it said again.  The four lightwarriors felt pressed back by nothing, and they tensed and locked onto their criminal thrones.  Edrick especially began to take in and release air violently.

"…To the temple of fiends," the box finished.

They looked to Sylum or Gipson for answers, but neither could give any suggestion at all.  The air behind the voice crackled a few times and then it continued.

"This temple is the legacy of dark over light.  Likely your scholar, Doctor Darrin Sylum…" strangely, the box pronounced Sylum's last name wrong, "…has informed you that this palace was once throne to the demon king Lichern, though he almost certainly told you it was a myth.  Know now that not a part of the story is untrue."

Seville shook his head disbelievingly, but Sylum was peering in as best he could with intent interest.

"What your intellectual hasn't told you is just who Lichern was.  Not so much a corrupt king, though that title might hold at times, but better he was, no, _is_ a devil, an elemental spirit of the earth.  On his darker throne, his kingdom of soil, deep within the planet, he is simply called Lich, and he waits patiently for a time to rise again.  Those peasants that rebelled against his territorial throne have only delayed and angered the buried king.  But the world is chaos, always chaos, and humans have little time left to make what they can of it."

It went silent a few moments, following two more of the trembling chirps and thumps.  Edrick had calmed almost by requirement.  The beautiful, liquid voice was like a blanket to the cold or like a dressed wound.  It was…comfortable, despite its alarming words, which would be hard to listen to on their surface level because of the lulling motion of the sound, but somehow the comprehension penetrated straight into the brain, and without the slightest affliction.  Seville tried to catch Sylum's eyes to gauge his impression of the speech, but the doctor remained focused on the wooden box that created the supernatural voice.  The powers of fascination were least effective on Herrik Gipson, who had not yet relaxed his taught and untrusting brow.  He eyed the still box and waited for something to strike.  With another introductory pop and hiss, the voice returned.

"But that is of little importance to us.  What _is_ important, as I first stated, is what Lich left behind: the temple.  Not content to reside in a house of such…superficial splendor as it was when he took it, Lich had the temple rebuilt using stone and earth from the planets core: rock and magma dried, smithed, and fashioned into this palace as it stands isolated today.  The very earth that forms his own castle far below."

The aural inflections came and went, mixed with the cracking and snapping noises.  For a second and supremely quiet, Seville thought he discerned the sounds of feet somewhere in the garble of noises, or at least the distinct sound of people.  But as he sat elatedly in the glowing vibe of the smooth voice, he hardly pieced that thought into anything more.

            "Filled with Lich's own madness, his creation was unlike any corporeal thing in this world.  He created not a building but a being; something with a vivid and powerful consciousness, with especially attuned mental dynamics.  Brave travelers coming to the temple of fiends looking for truth or riches never fell to the earth king's bestial army, those creatures are long dead.  Instead they found the end in themselves.  The persuasive dementia these stone walls can so effectively permeate into weak minds leads to murder and self-slaughter, and their bodies go to the king himself.  But those are weak minds, and ours are strong."

            The box clicked off again, and for over a minute it sat dormant on the table, giving the warriors time enough to confer.  They were each afraid to speak of course, unsure of whether or not the box could hear them, and if it could or not what that would mean.  But finally Seville could not contain his query.

            "Professor," he practically mouthed, "What's going on?"

            Sylum, having more than three words to answer with, had to punctuate a full whisper, "Do you think, maybe, that it could be the voice of Domino's superior?  The way it speaks, both personal and distant, like it's trying to hide a common grammar behind a fake one.  It sounds like a person trying to falsify his voice."  

            Playing for the first time in quite awhile on his intuition, Seville could nod to that, but still he felt out of his league.

            "Yeah....but what does it mean?" he asked, and the professor opened to respond but was cut short by the box buzzing back to life.

            "Do you understand, then..." the box began saying, "...what potential we of strong mind possess through this temple?  Do you understand what the true power of this building is?"

            And the box paused as if for an answer, but the four were wary to speak.  Of course, they looked to Sylum to make the call, trusting him best to choose the right path, but in truth the doctor was mentally writhing, weighing option after option on fatigued scales.  There was more to his life than anybody knew, more than even he could remember, but not too long past midnight on the fifth morning of the journey, he was experiencing the strangest time in his life.  And he didn't particularly like how it was going.

            "Do you wait for an answer?" Sylum finally broke down and asked the brown box.  And with its answer their suspicion was finally put to rest.

            "A demonstration perhaps," said the box, seemingly disregarding Sylum's question.  The voice continued with its tonal, haunting quality.  "A demonstration of the power we have only to harness."

            "Demonstration?" Seville said blankly.

            "Try hard, now, to focus on your thoughts.  Let them be what they will..."  The box resumed its normal silence a few moments, and then the windy back-noise amplified into a torrent, not loud, but surging.  Despite all efforts to the contrary, Seville could not help tensing up.  

"Relax," the box then said, almost like a direct response, "I'm not going to hurt you.  If you are afraid then I will leave you for now..."

Somewhere within the shoddy wooden rectangle the violent sounds whirred anew and settled back into its regular groove.  

"This is pretty weird right here!" Seville said aloud, just under the level that might reissue the pains through his mind.

"It begins..." it said, but nothing seemed to follow.

********************

"What is this?" Seville accused the unbroken scene, stammering with his eyes about the room, searching for altercation.  All things were unchanged, and though the box scaled down into lower octaves and the strange human backing behind the voice, the distinct breathiness, dissipated, nothing new occurred in the dungeon room.  Although still formidably bound, Gipson was grasping his fists as though around a sword hilt, ready to strike whatever the magic crate might produce.  There was such an uneasy, beady tension on the air he thought he might choke on it.

"What do you think?" chimed in the box very eagerly.  "Is it not marvelous?"

"What the hell is he..." but Seville let it trail away.

Sylum felt normal as well, normal and confused.  But the cynical, inductive reasoning in his brain also ran across a humorous thought he did not voice: this _demonstration_, this _spell_, was it failing?  He thought for a moment that perhaps the consciousness behind the box, if it were there at all, had truly no idea of what was taking place in the prisoner's cell.  No matter how absurd that idea, he couldn't repress it in face of the clues. He careened on the thin edge of a smile until he looked to his left and all cheery color drained from his face.

"Edrick!" the professor yelled over the whelp in his skull.

"What?!" Seville answered and turned and focused, "Eddie!  _Eddie!_"

But the priest was completely gone, and whether they were real or not, before him he only saw the most luscious, florid cacophony of dazzling colors that could not even be thought possible.  The multitudinous brightness beamed to him in euphoric chants; visual chants that could only reside somewhere in the stolen places of the mind and yet somehow undeniably manifest upon his skin and through his eyes and nostrils.  The prismatic display enveloped him and at times he was unsure whether he was actually blessed with color or just shear whiteness and heat.  A churning then sent the ribbons of light into spirals and then into floral patterns; marigolds, tulips, and pumpkin-sized violets blossomed within his retinas.  And they danced to the symphony of their own beauty, some upwards, some downwards, and some jaunting into completely unrealized dimensions.  They formed a path, a wholesome, welcoming path that with the position of the billowing petals suggested scores and scores of hands wafting him forward to the singularity of joy.  As Edrick approached them he smiled and melted into their design...

"Eddie!  Eddie!" the rogue yelped with need, frustratingly unable to attract the priest from his trance. 

To them Edrick had not gone to a dimension of kaleidoscopic zeal, but some dark and infinite chasm.  His lips trembled with ponderous fear, his normally pale face had gone immeasurably lucent, and he shook spastically as if overcome with a deathly shiver.  Most terrifying were his wide, staring eyes that had falsely glazed over until they were flatly opaque.  He aimed his frightened gaze into the parallel wall so fiercely it was strange the stone did not melt or decay.  And for all accounts past that the priest was lifeless; his chest resting temperately under his cloak, static and calm.

"Edrick!" Gipson yelled ferociously.

"Eddie!  Eddie snap out of it!" commanded Seville as he struggled again his wrists against the restrictive ropes.  Craning his neck, stretching it to the point of muscle exhaustion, Seville tried to slap the priest with the side of his head and somehow break him from the hypnotic spell, but he was just out of reach.  For the first time he tried to scoot the chair with what thrusts of the hip he could manage, but discovered then that it was immovable, planted solidly into the stone floor.  "Argh!!!"

"Edrick Valance!  You _will_ respond!" Sylum attempted, but Edrick was still lost to the flushing organs of iridescence.

The flowering illuminations had given their life to blend and produce a vibrant glowing metropolis of high-standing towers and eloquent veins of flowing channels.  Water of aqua, magenta, and even tangerine shuttled from pillar to pillar and traversed the complete estate from gushing fountains.  Each abode was itself a gallant castle glamorized with stupendous tufted tapestries and soaring banners of every chromatic variation.  All hunching towards the center of the city where dozens, no, hundreds, maybe thousands of picturesque statues of all hues waged endless sports of bombast to the laughing spectators.  Somewhere among them stood an alabaster Edrick, wreathed in the most genuine of roses.

"And do you realize the significance of this display?" the box questioned them musingly.  "Do you understand the inherent gravity?"

Edrick shuddered against his seat, but he stayed in the clutches of his both great and horrible fixation.  It seemed to his friends that he was experiencing the highest of physical agony, some intense internal thrashing, but in actuality he felt nothing that wasn't superimposed by the brilliant images deceptively cast before his eyes.  His awareness of the material world was for naught.

"A little more, perhaps..." came the deep voice from the box.  

"No.  _No!_" Seville shouted, but he only further proved that the thing could not hear them.  "Come on, Eddie, come on."

Two of the statues, porcelain gods, took Herculean lances into grip and squared off to one another.  The other promenading sculptures charged to the side in majestic ballet steps on allowed the combatants their proper room.  Edrick could only grab to the arm of a spectator and be pulled back, having lost all control of his legs.  The western gladiator pointed his finger through the firmament and catcalled to his opponent, his voices pulsating through the air in sonic bursts of chromatics.  He spoke in paints and dyes, his voice was truly silent.  The eastern crusader hooked the ethereal beacons, sparkling turquoise and fuchsia, and assailed them with the density of his spear-point to craft a picture in the heavens.  The ludicrous taunts and ephemeral jibes put into the past, the combatants set their stances and then charged...

"There," said the box, soothing and paternally, "That is done."

Instantaneously, Edrick exhaled gaspingly and dropped his head as it would.

"Edrick!" called Gipson emphatically.

The priest seemed unable to right himself, blinking sporadically and studying the room in a dizzy haze.  His eyes, his tired, disoriented eyes conveyed fear, for certain, but also showed a strange sense of lack, like he had been prematurely disjointed from some paradise.  For the first thirty seconds he consistently heaved against the ropes binding across his chest, perpetually yearning for something just before him, something that had been stolen away.  But then the attacks, like a childish habit, an unconscious act, ceased, and Edrick was left panting and sagging in the chair.

"Eddie?" Seville interceded.

"Huh?  What?" the still-dazed apprentice clergyman answered back.

"Snap out of it, man.  Are you okay?"

"What?" Edrick said again, wishing he could wave off the interrogation like a swarm of gnats.  It felt as though half his body was not with him, in fact, as if it had never been with him.  Instead it had been born in another dimension, another reality bound in a world of color.  Edrick's pained reaction that moment to the unhealthy darkness of the room mirrored exactly the pain suffered between the others and light.  His skull throbbed.

"Listen to me, Edrick," Sylum commanded with sincere concern in his voice.  "How do you feel?  Slowly..."

"Feel...I feel...not so good..."  He wanted to cup his forehead in his hand.  He realized how badly his wrists hurt as they chafed against the rope.

"What happened, Edrick?"

"Oh...oh no...that..." That drained empty feeling of his separation from the gifts of the hallucinations almost puts tears to his cheeks.  "That was...amazing..."

"Amazing?" scoffed Seville.  "We thought it was hurting you?"

"No, no, the very opposite!" Edrick wanted to spur into excitement and relate the tale of his vision but found his head thumped much too fiercely to allow it.  He settled for resigned narration.  "It was refreshingly pleasant, in fact."

"How...what?" the rogue rambled in disbelief.

"It _was_," Edrick assured.  "I could hardly believe it at first, but then...I also couldn't not believe it.  It's like I had no choice..."

The priest looked at them bashfully, realizing what little sense he was making, and Sylum adjusted the flow to be more accurate.

"Again, Edrick, think slowly.  What did you see?"

"I saw..." began Edrick quickly before an abrupt stop and a squinted look.  He shook it off.  "I saw colors..."

"Colors?" Sylum returned to fill the break, and Edrick nodded.

"Right.  I saw colors and... and... and I know I saw..."  Edrick sighed, looked to his thighs, and grew aggravated.

"What else did you see, Eddie?"

"Flowers, maybe, or...no, buildings, no..."

"Pleasant, Edrick, it was pleasant," the professor reminded.

"It _was_," the priest repeated himself, "Incredibly!"

"You can't remember what you saw?"  Seville, aghast, questioned.

"I can't ..." he sighed again, lost for even apologetic words.  "It's not..."

"Once more, I think," said the voice from the wooden box suddenly.  The increasingly menacing voice made them jump with its entry.  

"No!" Gipson roared from his seat.

"You all likely enjoyed that celestial vision..."

"All?" Seville voiced over the box.

"...but now I will choose one subject to give an even more convincing exhibition of this temple's great mental endowment.  Prepare yourself."

"Does it not know?" asked Seville, breathing frantically.

"Cease this!" Herrik Gipson commanded of the box once more, helplessly.

"Edrick, quickly, could you feel it begin?" Sylum pleaded.

"I was here and then I was there.  Nothing.  Like I said I had no choice..."

"Right, right, well, everybody just try to stay alert.  Try to concentrate on where you are now.  If you feel something come over you cry out.  Don't let it take you..."

So exorbitantly afraid it felt foolish, the four scrunched themselves into their seats and feared the air, the walls, the anything, the nothing.  The stagnant mist of oxygen about them spawned tendrils and snaked over them until they tickled and shivered with fright.  Each was certain his mind was near explosion.  But nothing was happening; in the small dungeon room of four chairs, a table, and a diabolical wooden box, nothing had changed.

Seville had always prized his ability to remain alert and in-the-moment; he kept a solid lock on his focus.  Uneasy with just drifting in a fearful ignorance, he took to counting the stone blocks that formed the adjacent wall to his left.  One, two, three, he never lost count or fluttered from his task.  He admired as he traced the wall how intricate the construction was; not alternating layers of equal bricks with sides set half-off each other, but an ornate plethora of sharp rectangles jutting both tall and wide and sketching with their boundaries a maze-like labyrinth of grooves.  He zoomed out to ascertain some larger design of the whole thing, but found it effectively random.  When he zoomed back in he rejoined the brave expedition of the black army ant tirelessly scaling up a long trench, yearning for the next right turn of the path.  When it got there it didn't stop to camp, it didn't take a breather, it just forced its legs onward a few centimeters, took the left direction, and scaled to its north once more.  The trail it was tracking became more apparent with every insectival step, the light from its small helmet illuminating with every pass of the beam the wide footsteps of the criminal werewolf.  Two more turns the army ant took until it galloped proudly into the square.  The ant approached the cliff despite the murky fog, skittering incessantly after its quarry.  A wrong step and the ant toppled forward over the cliff and shuttled to the tempest below.  Achieving terminal velocity the ant pierced the ocean surface and forged a swiftly spiraling vortex in the waves.  Seville choked with worry for the little insect, comforting himself by dabbling his feet through the skin of the sea on which the chair legs rested.  The salty, buoyant water was lukewarm and delicately thin, and even the tiniest droplet of water fell from Seville's naked toes in torrential cascades of cerulean moisture, only instead of coalescing with its mother ocean the streaming waters beaded on the surface and skittled into amoebic pools, then slowly, very slowly, over the course of eons, merged together and formed a second great sea atop the first, with waves mightier and depths more terrible.

"Come on, Seville!  Come on!" Edrick shouted, repeating the mantra he'd not even heard the rogue aim at him.  "Snap out of it!"

"There is nothing we could do for you, I doubt there is anything we can do for him," Sylum proposed logically.  

"But we must try!" the priest stormed back in agony.

Seville was rejecting the hypnotism.  Unlike Edrick's gargoyle stare, the rogue rebelled against his confines, pummeled the magical ropes about his legs, wrists, and chest, and hammered the back of the chair.  Rotating his hands about the wrists as he could, stretching them, risking their tendons, he scratched feverishly at the ropes.  His eyes widened and shut and then widened again, and all the while he hummed a mad tune, violently jumping octaves and tossing the rhythms each way.  Sweat rained down his quivering, angry face, and he visibly gnashed his teeth. 

"If you can hear me, Seville, please, fight it," the clergyman begged.

"Looks to me that he is fighting it, good priest," Gipson said softly but firmly in trying to comfort Edrick.  "Patience, now.  If did not injure you it will probably not injure him."

Edrick bit his lip and nodded, the emotion watering his eyes.

"Such imagination can be momentous under the will of the earth king's citadel," said the wooden box cryptically.

Swimming, churning, paddling frenetically with its six tender legs, the singular ant made headway across the globe-spanning body of marine torture.  Seville could feel it approach, like every slow inch was another grain of sand in the hourglass.  He could feel distance, feel time, feel the above and the below, feel life and death.  As the ant swam nearer and nearer, though still ages away, the tropical clouds above, fiery, burnt goldenrod, bifurcated into two quaking fronts that met at their ends to form an ovoid rounded much as a human eye, the pupil, iris, everything radiating a heartbreaking sapphire.  The optical mask in the sky started speaking in a high, demon's voice, but the language was foreign.  Seville could comprehend the magnificent sight no further, so he looked back to the infinitesimal bug, but saw it nowhere.  His telescopic eyes examined through each peaking tsunami but the thing was gone, gone until he heard the minute pecks on his chair leg.  Shooting downwards, he saw the ant crawling up and up once more, over the lip of the seat, to the top of Seville's thigh, and then towards his chest.  The rogue cringed and rocked on his floating throne, but the ant was irrepressible.  Carefully finding its footing along Seville's sternum the now palm-sized insect studied with its million eyes its final destination.  Seville wanted to cry, wanted to scream, but from his larynx he spoke only levitating bubbles of water.  And despite that fact, he realized he was thirsty.  So thirsty...

"Seville!  Seville!"

He was surely dying, surely suffering a burst heart.  Had he the ability he would be sobbing and sobbing until his illusionary ocean had become real with tears.

"Come on, Seville!  Come on!" Edrick chanted now, mindlessly, hopelessly.

Seville hiccupped and coughed and gulped down air only to upchuck it hysterically.  He traded gruesome hums for ever more grim whelps and grunts, all low and fierce enough to tear apart his throat.  It was unlike any sound the other three had ever known or would want to know.  It was _the_ definition of awfulness.  The ragged, painful sight was eventually too hard to watch for Edrick or Sylum.  Only Gipson's age-backed mentality could stomach it.  

The ant paused on his shoulder, paused and stared.  The demon's foreign cackling barely resounded over the new, stout cracks of lighting inserted to punctuate the thundering emptiness between Seville and the beady insect.  Seville looked at its sharp pincers and its strangely still antennae, and the ant looked at the rogue's drenched and soft skin.  The otherworldly tongue from above finished its sermon with a release of meteoring brimstone, with each collision igniting its own personal hurricane of fire.  Seville burned in the impossible searing heat, and the ant scuttled in, reared its weapons, and bit...

"_No_!" Seville shrieked out of his rapture and belted another furious bout of coughing and hacking.  His vision was one complete mosaic so he couldn't find the source of the hurting bruise he felt on his forehead and right cheek.  And the sounds he heard behind and above him were too meshed and frantic to translate, as if several people were barking orders at him.  He couldn't handle the pressure, couldn't handle the intensity; he wanted to keep his face laid against the frigid stone surface where the temperature soothed his aching body.  Nothing seemed better than to curl up like he did on that dungeon floor and wheeze himself into another stupor, this one of restful sleep.  Tears trickled from both eyes; it was _all_ too much.

"Seville, do you hear me?"

"Seville!  Seville!"

He thought he heard his name, but all the words were so enjambed with symbols and foreign linguistics.  The voice of his friends perhaps, but also there was the inkling of darker beings hailing at him.  

"You're free, Seville, you're free!"

_Free_, he thought, _free_, but what did it mean?

"Can you hear me at all?" an external voice exasperated.

The traumas dissipated quickly.  First the dizziness slinked away and then the demon's recurring voice was no more than a mumble.  Too much fatigue was pounding through his body for him to feel pain, but awareness to other senses did surge once more through him.  That knowledge revitalized his eyes and limbs, and though he was angry he couldn't remember what had happened, he was also joyous for it.  His focusing eyes scanned along a gray bumpy plane that instantly configured itself into the ground.  When he wanted to reach and make it real with his hands, he couldn't move them, but as inwardly frustrating as that was, it finally dawned upon him where he was.

"I'm free!" he shouted, allowing the walloping migraines to do their worst.  Seville rolled over to his back and looked up, seeing first the low ceiling, but then he nodded forward and saw his three friends staring at him blankly, still imprisoned in their chairs.  Flat against the dungeon ground, back to the floor, he admired all that was around him; so real and palpable, but somehow not more real than the forgotten dream.  There remained an itch in his head that tinkled just near the lick of his scalp, as if some metal piece in his brain had dislodged and begun scraping at the membrane.  Could he trust these new friendly images?  Had the box released him or had he actually broken free?  Quandary wrapped him like a blanket, but he had to rebel against even that.  He strained his abdomen and sat up, wonder-eyed.

"Incredible!" Sylum blathered, awestruck.  

"You did it!" encouraged Edrick.

The bindings about both Seville's chest and legs had been torn apart, literally exploded into ropey slivers that even then were wafting in the damp air.  

"But...but...how?" asked Seville, like the priest out of his own daze.

"You just pulled yourself free, man!" Gipson confirmed, "Brute force!"

"I ... I don't remember..."

"Neither did I," Edrick said empathetically.  "But it's over now!"

"The box ... the box said ... it was over...?"  

They each raised their glance from the spectacle and found the box as it had been the whole time.  It had not spoken for over two minutes.

"Well, no, but what does it matter?" Edrick said.

Seville shook off the question tiredly.

"Can you stand?" asked the knight authoritatively.  

A wave of ache washed over the rogue, but still he said, "Yeah," and did so.  The rope enchanted tightly around his wrists still remained, and he walked cautiously, never nearing the box lest the proximity incite it to further action.  The quiet from the evil wooden thing was dreadfully alarming.

"Do you think it knows?" Seville asked, scrunching behind what was once his chair as if the box would barrel at him.  

"Can't say.  It hasn't responded," Sylum answered.

"I've gotta get these last ropes off!" said Seville, searching for any aid in doing so.  

"But how, Seville?" the priest asked innocently.

"I'm workin' on it, man, I'm workin' on it," and then he saw something, something that just might work.  Seville squared off with his former chair and kicked across the seat.  As he'd hoped, it remained planted; it didn't even shake.  "Maybe.  If I've got enough strength left in me."

From either side at the top the chair's back jutted three extra inches of metal, rounded into a jagged bulb on the top with essences of Cornerian gothic.  Seville turned his back to the chair and looped the narrow stretch of rope between his wrists into that pike.  

"Let us pray I don't tear my own hands off," he said before struggling forward as fiercely and mightily as he could summon.  He felt like he was back in that chair raging weakly against too great an enemy, and could not in all capacities of his mind understand how he had managed to break the other ropes, but he continued to tug away at those around his wrists desperately.  Then with a shock so sudden he almost stopped fighting he jolted forward a matter of inches and heard the uplifting scratching of the tether being undone.  Moving his step forward to accommodate he pulled harder still, growling in his throat to be done with it, and then in one instantaneous pop the rope snapped apart and Seville launched forward to the stone ground.  It hurt more inside his head then it did upon it when he fell, but for once he cared little about that.  Zealously, Seville jumped to his feet, stretched his arms and looked at his fellows.

"What are you waiting for, Seville, get us out of these things," commanded the knight happily, just as a familiar and unwelcome voice rejoined them.

"Quite enough, I imagine.  You may rest," said the oblivious voice from within the box.  Seville shot away from it and parried for a strike though one never came.  The leap putting him closest to Gipson, he made to untie the intricate knots above the knight's wrists but stopped very shaken when the box spoke again.

It was not common, or even the Elvish or Dwarfish that was sometimes heard about larger towns; it was something older, something more archaic.  

"What is that?" Gipson asked concernedly.

"...Leifen," said Sylum was an impressionable smirk.  "The ancient language."

"What does it say?" Gipson demanded, preparing his options.

"I don't speak Leifen, nobody does.  I just recognize the syllables."

"Now ... behold..." started Seville.

"Huh?" the confused knight implored.

"It says ... it says..." Seville began again, trembling at the lip and fingers.  "It says, now behold the true power of the temple of fiends."

"You speak ancient?!" cried Edrick and Gipson simultaneously.

"No, no he doesn't," the professor answered first.

"Seville, how do know what it says?"

"Just ... I ... wait a minute, quiet!" assailed the unnerved rogue.  He translated the ancient inflections of the mysterious voice further, "It's saying, is it clear to you now the supreme power in our hands.  We can transmit knowledge across the planet instantly.  From this very palace we could give dreams to the elves, nightmares to the dwarves, and ideas to the kings of men.  We can speak to the universe, and through our voices harness it."

"How are you doing this, Seville?" sputtered Edrick, affright.  Seville groaned and palmed his cranium, drooped his head and panted.

"The language is in me," he tried to explain somehow.  "The dream ... the dream taught it to me."

"That's impossible," exasperated Sylum, truly emotional for the first time.

"Oh..." Seville moaned, "Oh, I can feel where they put it my head.  Like it's trying to chisel its way out."

"Try to forget it!" suggested the kinetic Gipson.  "Don't think about it!  Push it out of your mind!"

"It's in there like a stake, Gipson!" the rogue stammered impetuously, now sweltering his agonizing skull with his hands like a bleeding sore.  

"Seville, you've got to try to get us out of here," came the abrupt order from Darrin Sylum.  Seville breathed away what pain he could with one more heavy sigh.

            "Right," he said, and went to work on Gipson's bindings.  It didn't take him long before the knight's arms were released and Seville moved on to Sylum and then Edrick, all the while the box was orating in Leifen, speaking just for Seville.  The rogue catalogued in the back of his mind what it was saying, but didn't concern himself much with it.  It was more of the pompous semantics.  

            And then the four light warriors were standing and extending their tired muscles into restful positions.  They noticed when the box stopped speaking, trailing off like the end of a speech, but as so many times before nothing happened afterwards.  Just a pause in the flow it seemed.  Grouping and readying themselves they approached the door.

            "Wait," Edrick said.

            "What?  What now?" Gipson asked, resuming leadership now that they were back on their feet.

            "Should we, you know, do something to thing?"

            "What?!  No!  They'll probably know if something happens to it."

            "Are you sure?  They don't seem to have any way of..."

            "Yes, I'm sure this is different.  Besides, as long as that thing keeps talking we can go unnoticed.  At least, that's what I'm hoping."

            The matter settled, they bundled into the hallway and Gipson at point took the handlebar in his grasp.  With a collective intake of air he opened the door, slowly.  Millimeter at a time he could avoid most of the metallic screeching, and then it was open fear enough to slip through.  As they stepped through the box began to speak again, still in Leifen.

            "What is it?  What is it?" the nervous priest rambled, and Seville took a few moments to collect enough context.

            "It's still just talking, Eddie.  It don't think they suspect a thing."

            Leagues and leagues away from his element, yearning sorely for a feel of home, Edrick nodded resignedly and followed them out the door.  It was another dark hallway much like those they had seen the entire time before being captured.  They didn't recognize it, but did recognize the torch light down the armor-laden hallway.  

            "We're close, be very quiet now," recommended Gipson, trying to master the upended hairs on his neckline.  "I'll go in front.  Softly now, step by step."

            "Guys ... _guys_..." Seville whispered strongly.

            "What?"

            "You're not gonna believe it!"

            Following Seville's gaze of wonderment to the floor a little ways down the hall opposite the torches, there was a pile equipment and glittering silver, topped impressively by a blade shimmering very modestly the most stunning aura of blue.

            "There's no way!" vocalized Gipson with a suddenly smiling awe.

The four light warriors went to their weapons, and they readied for battle.

165         


	14. Frailty

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I The Meager

Chapter 14 Frailty

_"And all things change them to the contrary."_

--Romeo and Juliet

Herrik Gipson, at point, led them cautiously down the final hall; those last steps among the thousands taken en route to supposed destiny. A light warrior's destiny. It felt a burdensome time for those thoughts on predestination to return, bounding them on some false elastic cord between certainty and hopelessness. Seville most of all was overcome with strange conflict. He remembered how he had thought it all so ridiculous in the beginning; an old man and a professional scholar getting tossed up in a fairy tale, and most unbelievable of all, dragging along some no-good rogue and his incompetent priest. No maps of course, no interrogations, just good, never-let-you-down destiny to lead them to the princess. Seville had trouble pinpointing that one detail, that inch of restraint that limped on its duty and allowed him to go on some holy mission. But then, in only days the pieces stuck themselves together, and this infectious rightness blinded his better judgment. Can four random people be light warriors? Can _I_ be a light warrior? No, of course not, he thought, hesitantly shaking his head at these thoughts, but so slightly the others would not notice. He was no savior, and Edrick also didn't fit the bill. Professor Sylum was a bookworm, not a warrior. Sure, he'd grant Gipson, but the rest of the crew was in need of some refinement.

But here they were. Steps away from destiny, just as Sylum predicted it. Seville didn't know beliefs could suffer such ebb and flow. He didn't know if he could put his faith into destiny, as remarkable as the evidence was, or write it off as coincidence. And he didn't know exactly what the evidence was. Finding the temple, the princess, and her captors. But, the princess was _not as he envisaged_, whatever that meant, and Domino certainly could have been lying, though the professor did not seem to think so. Was it Chuck Domino's article then that brought everything into question? What was this _Lux Aeterna_ that they were supposedly working for? What are the qualifications of light warrior? If the loquacious journalist presented facts, then it had nothing to do with magical orbs and great consequence. It was just four warriors helping people in need. And if it were not for four unimpressive crystal orbs that came together mysteriously on that first day, he would still be in Corneria city this very moment. Still in _jail_, he thought, with a certain conviction.

And yet, if all the legend truly requires is four warriors helping those in need, then, that they were doing, or at least they were trying. What did questions of faith in destiny matter, or beliefs in two-thousand year old legends when it came to helping people? Isn't that something you just do regardless of what you are? Well, no, not for him, Seville thought. How many had he conned? How many jobs had he pulled and what was the total value? And what about how it hurt Dunnings? Can a light warrior have this résumé? But did that even matter? Can he turn a new leaf? As Gipson said, _change_ is everything.

But would Seville change? Once every new burden rose and fell on the rogue's shoulders as every more desperate step proceeded down the ultimate hallway, that's what they came down to. That's what everything added up to: can _I_ change? He looked for those parts in him that had to go, tried to separate and dissect them away, but Seville only found that every other part of him was attached. His mind was one big ball of yarn and he needed just the core. Or better he was a house of cards with no more struts to spare, barely standing in the currents. The wind was the future; the only thing that the great Herrik Gipson feared, and it sure was slow in getting there. Easy, right, going from con artist to semaritan? That's what Edrick had told him all those times. But he didn't know everything; barely knew anything actually. But then again, maybe those few things he knew were the only ones worth knowing.

Spiraling between hope and despair, destiny and chaos, the real thought that held onto Seville was, "Poor Eddie, the only hero we have left..."

Gipson waved them silently to a stop when they came to the turn of the hall. He spun his head around to the others, gestured, and looked back. The torchlight was relatively brilliant just around the corner; they were getting close. The knight thought twice and glanced to his warriors once more and signified they ready their weapons. That Seville or Professor Sylum would drop them at all was a false guess, but he did it just to be sure. With black wizards, it was impossible to be over prepared.

Around the corner was yet another hallway, another disappointing march, but ending this one was not a flat wall with adjacent paths to either side but an opening to a wide room. Over the crackling of the torch fire Gipson was certain he heard the low murmur of a voice. _Close, now_.

One gentle step at a time, they approached destiny.

At the end of the last march Gipson paused and waited, yearning his head as far forward as he could, but the life in the great hall before him was too far off to the side. He hadn't made much of a plan, not yet trusting his three companions with complex tactical maneuvers. Hostage rescuing was never his primary talent, anyways. Utterly silent, Gipson faced the team, took long, heavy breaths, and felt on his brow a fresh trickle of sweat. Such nerve, he thought, the most unsettling he'd ever felt.

By the look on their faces, the others felt the same way, and had as little advice on where to go from there as he. Finally, Gipson nodded; a healthy nod, despite the worry, a proud nod. This was it. Gipson lifted his dragon sword, smiled at them, and turned the corner, ready for war.

The enemy was not exactly prepared, or even paying the slightest attention. When the first bodies came in to sight, Gipson dodged and slung himself behind a ceiling-reaching pillar, and the others followed fast behind. Having left Gipson's armor behind for sake of stealth, they did this noiselessly. A quick glance around the massive stone column, and Gipson saw everything.

At a wooden desk that was weighted laboriously with high stacked parchments and a not-so-foreign wooden box, sat a new man, dressed simply in a T-shirt of very dull purple and black denim pants. His face was in places dark and cavernous, and yet in places shallow and pale, like an uneven earthquake had played across his skull, and his black hair was a veritable grease deposit, shining luminously in the torchlight and tucked flat down his wide and round head. And from the narrow gapings of his slivery mouth emitted the most juvenile, nasal voice that one would likely ever hear. This man ducked his head into a small black rectangular prism that lay just before the wooden box, and he spoke to it about power.

On a stool but a few steps from that desk, facing off into some no doubt interesting cranny of the flat castle wall was Chuck Domino. He was passing the time by picking at his teeth with a wand tip, and occasionally sulking his head into his hands and making silent pleas for peace. Or so it seemed by the intense scrunching of his eyelids. If he possessed interest in the moment it did not show.

And the final piece, Queen Bee, was not far from that, her back up against the wall of the throne room, arm perched atop the one raised knee, mouth pouted forward, disinterested, glorious orange hair unkempt and hanging to her waist. The victim of the most terrible kidnapping in the history of Corneria, Princess Moira simply sat and examined her nails. Of course she was beautiful, of course she was stunning, of course it could look like a kidnapping, but Gipson knew immediately that Chuck Domino was telling the truth. Something with her was wrong.

"It's her," Gipson mouthed, and the others craned to see. They too looked instantly disoriented by the situation. What was this?

"On my move," he then whispered silently, once more readying his blade and performing those first, fateful steps.

He drew himself a good lead into the room, still completely unnoticed despite the fact that his aggressive advance now bordered on flaunting. Domino and Princess Moira were lost in their own boredom, and the mysterious man at the box was too intent on what had just become a message of fear and lament to notice much of anything. Clearly this man was speaking to four light warriors that were supposed to be off in a dungeon chamber, tied to chairs, immobile. And the truth of that situation was broken to him not a moment later, when Gipson called out with supreme authority.

"Don't. Move. One. Muscle!" and he brandished _Drâco_ proudly.

Immediately disobeying, the man at the desk choked on his tongue, hacked through a flurry of wrenching hurks, attempted to jump up in astonishment, and stupidly bounded back over his chair.

Chuck Domino's toothpick was quickly made a weapon, and unlike the man who could only be his boss, he gave not the slightest flinch. The flat, dull edge of the wooden wand aimed straight into Gipson's chest, and Domino held it there and waited. For a journalist his readiness for battle was uncanny.

"Impossible..." he muttered quietly, perhaps for the first time approaching speechlessness.

Princess Moira didn't move at all, only stayed at her seat against the wall and watched like one might a boring play. When Gipson saw this, greater and more dire red flags billowed in his mind. This situation was out of his control before it began, he thought.

"Out!" he shouted, and the acoustic boom of throne hall ricocheted his deep voice around them. Quickly the three other light warriors joined him, Sylum bearing the potent Werebane and Edrick just trying his best to look threatening. Seville edged himself to the side and scuffed his feet, ready to make a dash for the princess if Domino should try something.

"How did you ... how did you ..." the clumsy man stuttered through violent breaths, darting his eyes to and fro between the light warriors and Chuck Domino, perhaps his bodyguard.

"Now," continued Gipson in a lowered tone, but not with a lowered weapon, "I want to keep this as simple as possible..."

"How did you..."

"You are outnumbered and by the looks of your help, Domino, you're _hugely_ outgunned. That said..."

"How did you..."

"Would you hush it, Gar? What are you, asthmatic now?" convulsed Chuck Domino in bitter disgust for the situation. _Gar_ stopped speaking and settled for annoying Domino through pitiful wheezing noises. The mage was quiet and calculating, he let Gipson speak on.

"...That said, there doesn't have to be any bloodshed." From the corner of his eye, Gipson could see Seville inching closer and closer to his dash for the princess. The knight was wary of the move, wanting to make more time while he figured out this odd vibe he was receiving. "You know why we are here. We'll do what we've come for and go, nobody gets hurt, nobody _needs_ to get hurt. Your fate can be left to the King's prerogative."

Gipson could swear that at that moment he saw the princess stifle a chuckle under her breath. Domino was undaunted.

"How did you escape your confines?" the black mage asked haughtily, while the unimpressive Gar was finally taking control of his breath and wandering, almost aimlessly, into the situation.

"Okay," the knight continued, as if Domino had never spoke, "Let's do this slowly. Princess Moira? Can you walk?"

"Listen, champ..."

"_Princess?_" inquired Gipson direly, purposely above Domino's interruption, though Gipson could not help keeping his eyes on him. Moira did not move.

"Just hear me out for one..."

"Moira," Seville began in Gipson's stead, already half the way to her, "It's time to go. We've been sent by your father to rescue you. Just walk over to us and we'll get out of here."

"That's it, hold up a minute, buck-o!" shouted Domino angrily. "You're not _taking_ the princess out of here just like that, or at all for that matter, so allay the hurry one bit, and let's have a conversation."

"Enough!" Gipson roared, swiftly unsheathing a dagger and launching it true to the black mage's throat, and as Domino twisted and halted the blade in the air with a deft swoop of his wand, Seville let loose his tarried feet, took his own dagger firm, and charged to the princess. Even when he came upon her and offered his hand she did not take it or stand to leave. In fact, she looked Seville in the face as if he were some dumb beast, and waited for events to run their course.

Entirely expecting his attack to fail, Gipson made a rush with his dragon sword even before the dagger was magically halted, only to stop dead in the air just like it. Domino, with a quick draw of a fresh wand, suspended Herrik Gipson in his attack with a firm thrust of the dowel, but from there his options thinned. Edrick stupidly gazed at the excitement, but Darrin Sylum eventually rallied himself to join the attack.

"Garland, a little help, maybe?" Domino requested emphatically, jousting Sylum off with a lance of ice from the wand in his off hand.

"Princess! Quickly!" Seville commanded at the sidelines. She finally did look at him, and then she opened her mouth and made to speak in length but was cut off. All she got was, "I don't think you'll understand this, but..."

"What do you mean?" the man, now officially named Garland, asked, trying his best to not be Sylum's target.

"I _mean_, do it! You know what!" replied Domino, furious, again sending Sylum astray with a well-aimed blast of ice magic.

Garland seemed to lament for a millisecond and then he dragged in a deep breathe and said, "Right!" in his pipsqueak voice. Running to a more central location in the grand room, Garland clasped his fingers together and sunk himself into his mind; the results came instantaneously.

Black figures, black creatures from some void, sporting antennae and tendril-like claws, melted up from the cold stone floor and scampered about in ballet-worthy sync. The very same creatures as the single apparition from the dungeon room, like shadows only opaque. A dozen of them in all, they briskly and tactically circled Sylum and Edrick, with two each put on Gipson and Seville duty. Gipson, still enwrapped in Domino's magic, did nothing, and Seville, now seeing himself greatly outnumbered, backed from the fight.

The rogue swiped his arm through the air to capture the princess's undivided attention.

"_What is this?!_" he hissed at her, but she only passed a nonchalant glance back to him before focusing her attention on Chuck Domino and Garland. Seville felt angry breaths tensing in his chest when the princess looked away from him. He didn't realize how close the shadows had become.

"It's always a fight with you people!" the black mage chided, releasing Gipson with a jab of the wand. The knight bounded back and slid across the ground, where four shadows quickly surrounded him on him all sides. "Perhaps you shouldn't delegate diplomatic avocations to the so very … philistine Mr. Gipson."

Gipson clenched his fists and reared a charge but Domino already had his wand aimed right at him. Reluctantly, Gipson curled his lip and edged back from his stance. When one of the pesky shadow creatures drew too close he kicked it, and it flew a good five meters.

"You see?" continued Domino, then he pointed to some papers that had strewn about the stone floor, indicating that the still uncomfortable Garland was to pick them up. "Barbarous."

Domino stood still then, waiting for Garland to finish the short task and join him before the wooden table. To pass the time, he scratched his head and squeezed the sweat from his eyelids, and after that he took to twirling the wand between his fingers. However, rather than fixing the problem, Garland only managed to knock another tower of paper over onto the floor. Domino sighed.

"Over here," he said, looking at Seville and marking the spot with his outstretched wand. Resignedly, cautious to put distance between himself and the princess though he couldn't understand her disapproval of being rescued, Seville walked over, joining the others in front of Chuck Domino. About ten feet separated them.

"Garland! Forget it! Let's just do this already." Domino seemed incredibly tired.

The man named Garland nodded, dropped the papers in his hands back onto the floor, realized that was a stupid thing to do, went back down to retrieve them, realized he hadn't gotten anywhere in doing that, decided to let them stay, and finally stood next to Domino at the table laden with the wooden box identical to that one from the dungeon room.

Domino shook his head, not so much in real disbelief but in that false disbelief that comes after a person makes petty mistakes again and again.

"Get on with it," Domino commanded, and the four light warriors seriously began to question who was really in charge.

"Right," Garland said, an awkward smile forming on his deformed face and quickly disappearing for a stern, professional grimace. He turned to the light warriors. "Welcome…"

The intonation of his greeting matched the voice from the wooden box perfectly, though still in a higher register. He was definitely the one who had been speaking to them.

"…In case you haven't guessed this already, my name is Garland. Yes, as I'm sure you're thinking it, I am the voice in the box. I am also the no-doubt diabolical kidnapper you've been hunting these past four nights. So am I, in effect I suppose, the enemy. Or at least, your enemy."

Doctor Darrin Sylum sunk his head slightly to one side, and prepared to sift through this man's words. He wasn't interested in semantics, or even in compromises. Sylum waited to hear the proposition. Herrik Gipson just waited to strike.

"To address that end, where supposedly we would have a combat of sorts and to the victor goes the princess," Garland gave an open-handed acknowledgement of her existence. She smiled and waved back, a twiddling-finger kind of wave, and an extremely sarcastic smile. "Let me inform you, as a gesture of kindness, that in that situation, there is no victory for you."

"Let's test that right now!" Gipson barked, and for once Garland displayed backbone by warding the knight down with a firm showing of his palm. Again, Sylum tried to take over for the knight.

"Master Gipson, let the man talk. As long as the princess is in our sights he can stall to his heart's content."

The princess visibly laughed at that, but then she looked away to avoid having to answer for it. Garland sighed; Domino did nothing.

"Lieutenant First Class, right? Of the Knights of the Coast?" Garland asked, but Gipson only flared his nostrils and said nothing back. "And a knife fighter that I understand can put up quite the fight?"

He looked Seville over, who was still burning within to know why the princess had brushed him off. What was the meaning of all of this?

"And a white mage to clean up the mess? Not a bad party, not at all."

Sylum bit his lip. Garland hadn't mentioned him.

"My point being, Master Knight, and please keep this in mind: we put a stop to your offensive in twenty seconds. How much longer do you think, Master Gipson, would it take us to kill you?"

"About twice as long as it took me to kill you!" Gipson threatened, repressing his roar. His fists clenched anew.

"That's it!" Domino broke in, jousting a wand in Gipson's direction. "You don't talk anymore. I'm tired of listening to you. One meeting was too many, a shame it is I must suffer three."

"Shut your partner up and I'll put you out of your misery!"

"Gipson!" Seville interrupted.

"What?"

"You are the greatest warrior I have ever seen, but in this case I'm afraid _they_ are probably right." Seville turned the dagger uncomfortably in his hand, waiting for things to reveal themselves, hating these delays. The princess was chuckling to herself once again.

"You see what I told you about him?" Domino said to her victoriously.

"And here I thought you were exaggerating," is what she said back.

"Journalists don't exaggerate, Moira." She laughed to that.

"Anyways!" Garland forced onto Domino, for once affecting _his_ behavior. Domino actually quieted obediently, a scowl returning to his face. "Given that an aggressive offense on you part would unquestionably result in the death of your entire party…"

Garland looked them over along with offering a cordial tuck of his hand.

"…and I don't want that, you've all worked so hard to get here, so perhaps we can approach an alternative together, something beneficiary to both sides, something … symbiotic, if you wish."

"What do you mean?" Seville inquired, a new chord of tension wrapping into itself on the back of his neck as Sylum's predictions appeared to be coming true. His clenched his dagger tighter. "Just, get on with it!"

"Of course. I'm going to proposition you now, you may ask questions, accept, or decline. You accept, and this world is ours for the taking. You decline … I'm afraid you will die."

"_Get on with it!_" Seville screamed at him. He couldn't fail, not like this, he couldn't let it all slip away after this. In his mind, for the first real time in four days flashed the gaunt, unhappy image of his Godfather, Dunnings. Seville knew just what he was unhappy about.

"Doesn't that hurt your head?" Garland asked out of the blue. "The screaming and everything? I'm sure the headaches must be killer after what you went through."

Thick beads of anger deposited in the rogue's throat.

"…What does that matter?"

"Well, why do you do it? Purposefully bring yourself pain like that. It was a long trip you took to get here, I'm trying to offer you some comfort. So please, stop yelling."

Not a one of the four light warriors could believe what they were hearing from this _Garland_. Just who was this guy?

"The proposition," Sylum entered and requested. In his peripheral vision he saw the knight grit his teeth.

"You're right, it's time," said Garland, he paused a very brief moment, then, "Join us."

A block of the most ridiculous silence.

"What?" Gipson said, half-query, half-growl.

"I'm quite sure you heard me," Garland retorted pompously; the knight squeezed his knuckles tighter.

"I'm quite sure I didn't, because I _know_ you wouldn't…"

"Why?" Sylum interjected, very levelheaded.

"Protection … to a certain extent, but also credibility."

"Credibility?"

"Every show needs a straight man, of course," Garland winked.

"I don't understand what you mean," Sylum said to him as his three partners reeled with the anticipation of combat. To be honest, the professor wasn't thinking that was going to happen.

"My apologies…" Garland said with a comely grin, "I've been needlessly vague. Let's get more concrete."

Garland clapped his hands to set off the job and walked around the wooden table, signifying the wooden box with his outstretched arms.

"Gentlemen, I give you the Requisitive And Didactic Imaging Object, or Radio as we call it for short. Simulating the very enchantments that haunt these castle walls, this device can transmit the spoken word half-way across the globe as long as there's another one over there to receive it. Logically enough, there are transmitters, like the one you see here, and receivers, like the one you saw in the dungeon room that you so bafflingly escaped. They are a tad bulky to move but are virtually impossible to destroy, and as long as they do remain intact the enchantment is permanent."

Garland paused and waited for response, but the light warriors were dumbfounded in totality. Gipson was so confused he even let his bared sword off of ready and just held it to his side, staring blankly at the wooden box; the _Radio_. Garland, realizing that his response wasn't going to come, went on.

"Imagine, if you would, this instructive scenario: a civil war breaks out in Elfland, between them and the dwarves, and by an astonishing bout of good fortune the dwarves overtake the great race and install one of their own as king. As his first decree, the new king sends all of the Elvish dissidents across the ocean, where they decide to seek refuge with their nearest acquaintance, Corneria. Now, you could learn about all of this the day that the Elves arrive on your shores, huddling for food and shelter, or you could have known about it five minutes after the coup began, with daily updates."

Garland paused again, the grin growing wider on his face. By now Chuck Domino had eased himself to the side a few feet to let Garland play his part, but he didn't smile. Domino veered his eyes into the light warriors with utter conviction.

"The effect …" Sylum began, very slowly and carefully, "… the effect on the political structure … the effect on the entire world would be … astronomical…"

Garland nodded his head, jerked Sylum with his fishing hook.

"No more isolated nation states hunting barbarically for more land," Garland said. "No more worry as to whether the attack is coming, no more messengers throwing their lives away, no more doubt."

Garland placed his palms to the table and leaned forward with a sincere brogue upon his stumpy face, a smile all-assuring.

"Imagine! A single world community! Our ability to connect with each other will create an ability to … understand one another. Politically. Socially. Personally. We could transmit messages to the entire world weekly, daily even. _This_ is a revolution!"

The information sunk a little deeper; Dr. Darrin Sylum most of all was stricken with the most terrible conflict, one of duty, understanding, and desire. As he stood he began to breathe heavily, his chest rising and falling like the waves of high tide.

"You would … you would need … thousands!"

"Yes, of course," Garland returned plainly, "That's exactly why we're building thousands. My good friend Chuck is quite skilled at it. It is a … delicate process to be sure. We are not fooling lightly with the powers of Lich, simply using his strength for a more complete purpose."

Not one of the light warriors had realized the dark children, the sentry shadows, has long melted back into the floor, and with Domino's wand sheathed once again, they were quite unguarded. Instead, they could hardly realize a thing.

"You still haven't explained _our_ purpose?"

"_You_ will bring our invention to the people and proceed from there on a schedule we have laid down. They will receive you as light warriors; as heroes."

An unsteady looked passed between the four, and then they entwined their own and placed it uncomfortably on Domino, who looked them right back in the eye. Garland took direct notice of this.

"Chuck's article has shaken your faith; your faith in yourself. And you believe the same has happened throughout the small part of Corneria that even knows you exist. In truth, it was merely a tactic employed to ensure that you would act rashly. Emotion is always an efficient catalyst to the achievements of a destined hero. And as for the people, when you return with our great gift, they will only trust you more. The king is wise to the fact that his people are only looking for the next big show, and so we must be wise to that as well, and plan accordingly."

"We weren't sent for some wooden box, no matter how powerful," Seville sneered, looking the princess over once more, internally cursing her lackadaisical stare into the events. "Do you have any idea what would happen if we returned without her?"

"Absolutely," Garland bragged, smiling effeminately now. His ability to turn his lips for the right moment rivaled even Herrik Gipson's. "King Eliv will go into an ferocious tirade, whereupon you will inform him of our whereabouts and that he need only come claim his daughter. Eliv will believe you, as materialistic as he is, every father would give his life for his daughter when it finally comes down to it, but he won't go himself, and he won't send a recovery squad. He'll send an army. But of course, we are only building his hopes. When that army arrives, they will transmit the message back to him, via the radio we've given him, that no one was found. As a result, Eliv will declare war on the world."

"Some promise of understanding, huh?" Seville chastised. The knight to his left had put his long sword back into the air.

"By this time, of course," Garland continued, ignoring Seville's comment, "We'll be safely out of the country. In Elfland, in fact, where we will be installing our next series of radios. They will buy into it because, using the already operative installment within Corneria, we can prove to the Elves the substantial power of the thing, the power to know everything about everyone. They will look upon us very kindly, assuming they don't lynch us for being human, but last I heard they don't do that anymore."

Sylum almost chuckled, by this time euphoric within his own wonderment at the size of thing that they, four warriors from a second-world country, could barely even scratch the surface of. This was so much bigger than everything he could hardly keep himself from fainting, though all he saw to his sides were born weapons. _That_, he decided right then, could not be.

"King Eliv's world war will be fierce, and will spread quickly. We can only hope it won't spread more quickly than us. The radios will be distributed in mass; we'll get people to do it for us. Every country will listen in, their very first radio transmissions will be the warning that a mad king is coming to slaughter them, and those statements will be correct. They will put up their guard, and together, the world community will put Eliv at bay. Their safety and victory granted by the will of our machine. How could they possibly deny us then?"

"You would start a war!" Seville roared.

"Start a war to end war, Seville." Garland knew then to turn his smile down, to remove it actually, and replace it with a very thin, certain gaze. "This will also go as a lesson to them. How can there be war in a world community? Because any assault will be announced long before it occurs, communities will band with others to survive, and they with others until eventually there is only one nation."

"It's too big!" said Seville. "You know something will fail in your perfect little plan."

"Ah! I was hoping one of you would bring that up," the smile returned. "Tell me, Seville … no, Eddie, we'll start with you…"

"My name's Edrick," the priest said. His feelings so far were too confused to pinpoint, but mainly they revolved around distrust. He could not let a war begin because of himself. _Would_ not!

"Forgive me. Edrick, tell us, what do you remember of your dream? The so-called, demonstration I graced you with."

"Nothing," Edrick said forcefully, trying his best to disprove any point the scheming little man was trying to make. Besides, he didn't really. He couldn't remember a thing.

"Oh, sure you do. I'm not talking about images. Think more abstractly. What do you _really_ remember from your dream?"

"I told you nothing!" Edrick defied, his conscience aching at his temples as the lie slipped from his mouth. When he began to think about it he knew exactly what Garland was wanting him to say.

"Another approach perhaps? Because I know you know what I want. Fighting is useless, I already told you that. Now, is what you remember 'joy'?"

Edrick ducked his head away; he wouldn't look at Garland.

"You acquiesce, and I'll take that as confirmation. It's okay to feel joy sometimes, Edrick, this world forgets that now and again. Besides, in this instance you were unable to resist it, but there's not a doubt in my mind that you didn't feel it or that you can't remember it. I know."

Trickles of shame tucked themselves around Edrick's eyelids; still he did not look towards. Garland let it go.

"And what about you, Seville? What do you remember from your dream?"

Seville thought everything over, wondered if it would do any good to deny it like Edrick had, but then understood that it really wouldn't. He looked Garland straight on and spoke very bitterly.

"Fear."

"That's right, you did, didn't you? Fear! It's amazing stuff. Live in a haunted palace as I have for the past three weeks and you'll learn a lot about it. About it's power to … influence. Even control."

"What's the point?" Sylum asked.

"The dreams you had are another power of the radio, obviously we won't spread this one around. No, we'll keep that power just for ourselves. Tell me, what might happen if we gave a king a dream, gave a dissident army a dream? Dreams of fear or jealously, or even joy? They won't remember what it is they dreamed of, they won't remember the fantasy we gave them. The only thing they will remember is the feeling. What do you think would happen, then?"

No one spoke back; Garland chuckled.

"Allow me to put it another way. Let's return to our past scenario, elves and dwarves. I ask you…" and Sylum knew that very moment that Garland was looking right at him, right into his very soul, "How would _you_ like to be the dwarf king?"

Sylum dropped his long sword, and it landed with a deafening metal crack on the stone floor. He didn't pick it back up, didn't even seem to know he'd dropped it. Garland knew he had him, and moved in once more for the kill, pointing to the radio on the table.

"Because with this thing, we can own this world!"

Gipson ripped an extra sword from its sheath and snapped on the air.

"You're mad!"

"Undoubtedly," Garland responded, looking a little flustered by Gipson's firm approach, "But I'm also right."

"Not if I stop you right here!"

"Back!" Domino shouted with his wand fresh in the air, directed at the knight, the fiery aura of something quite deadly already brewing on the end. Gipson snarled, the clean edge of his dragon sword itching to be used on this refuse. But he desisted as the threat of Domino's magic came into play. Gipson showed his teeth like a wolf.

"I've given you my proposition," again Garland seemed to be looking right into Doctor Sylum, "So now it's time for you to make your choice. I'll repeat for the last time, Master Knight, you are making the wrong one."

"Then let it be the wrong one!"

Seville took half a step forward, desperate to figure things out once and for all.

"One condition," he said, and Gipson turned towards him aghast.

"Seville!" but the rogue somehow stared the towering knight down, then he looked back to Garland who had put on a cautious face and had ducked his ear forward, pretending he couldn't hear.

"And what is that, Seville?"

Seville wasn't sure if he should say it or not, whether it meant something or not. Seville just wasn't sure of anything anymore. Still, he spoke, and said it as proudly and confidently as he could stomach amidst the inner turmoil.

"The princess goes free."

Garland rolled his eyes.

"Are we still on that?" The response made an infinite number of ice crystals sink deep into Seville's chest. "I was hoping to keep proceedings simple and avoid this little bit until later, but if we must we must, so, gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to our leader, our … mastermind, if you like, the stunning Princess of Corneria, Moira."

"_What?!_" Seville stammered and spun his neck to view the woman sitting until this moment lazily up to the wall. The princess looked back and brushed some rogue strands of her wavy red hair from her face. She gave the gawking thief a sinister smile and finally stood to join her partners, clicking her tongue to the top of her mouth a few times as she approached.

"Gee," she began, her voice was haughty and malcontented, "Admirable sentiments can be such a killjoy sometimes. Especially when they've already taken you so far."

"How could you … how could you …" Seville tried to find words, but neither him nor his team could produce a single manageable one.

"Very easily. Any Cornerian who has half a mind can tell that my father's a fool; he's just fortunate that none of them do. At least except his own daughter, and that's what will come back to hurt him the most."

"But … but …"

"Don't try too hard now, the answers aren't always right in front of you," Princess Moira said, by now sitting back against the wooden table, her hands grasping it around the edge. She talked liked Garland, very affirmative and condescending. "His kingdom is built on publicity. Act like you should be famous and you will be, that kind of thing. What it's _not_ built on is policy, or heck, even intelligence. And that is why Corneria is being driven into the dirt. Many of his own people love him, but that is something that other nations don't see, and he doesn't know how to command their trust. They don't respond to entertainment, they don't watch the magician's dancing girls, they watch the magician. And that's a pressure my father can't handle."

She stopped to look them over once. Edrick still was at a point where nothing came together, and Gipson also was static with his approach. Seville looked as if he needed a mother to cradle him. Nothing. All of this was for nothing.

Sylum was very intrigued.

"For the sake of Corneria his reign has to be stopped. That's something we can do. With or without you, mind, but we are offering you your life for your ability to protect ours. This is a good deal, Seville."

How dare she speak his name!

"In your plan Corneria loses its war. This country you're saving would be devastated either way it seems. Why through bloodshed?" Seville asked.

"Corneria will be rebuilt," the princess answered simply. "The victorious nations will join and aid the reconstruction."

"Why?" the rogue interrogated, not knowing why he even bothered to continue speaking. He was going to fail and he knew it, and the thought tore through his gray matter like shrapnel.

"Because we'll tell them to. We've already been over this, there is nothing we cannot control."

"_Except_," Garland entered once again, "…for you four, which is why this time, and this is the only time, we are offering a choice. You know what you need to know; now it's time for it. Join us or not, right now!"

Silence. The wafting, sickly kind of silence that made you feel green all through your body blanketed over them and injected its poison. Half a minute passed, and then a full minute, and then more. Not one of the four light warriors felt like one, or even felt like part of a team. Each was alone with his thoughts, completely isolated from companionship. They each knew their answer, but were awfully afraid of the others'. The three opponents, the pestering mage, the treacherous princess, and the mysterious Garland just waited for them to speak. They stood almost shoulder-to-shoulder, a fortified armor designed only to intimidate. Anxieties stood on a wire.

"I will not let you start a war," Herrik Gipson finally said, low and threatening.

"People go to war for all kinds of reasons, Master Gipson," Garland retorted bombastically, "Elves slaughtered five-hundred thousand dwarves over control of a fourteen mile-long straight. The Leifens, the ancients, the cultural, not to mention biological backbone of the entire human race was massacred almost to the point of genocide over salt. Some people…" and once again he seemed to gaze deep into Sylum's mind, "Some people even go to war over ideas. I am not ashamed to go to war for the betterment of the world community. Neither should you."

"I will _not_ let you…"

"You are a knight, Master Gipson, war is your job. All of your friends in the K.O.C. are going to fight in it. So, too, can you, in the most important way. _This_ is the war that the Knights of the Coast were established for. The great war! A war to end all others. This is not something you can stop."

"I will _not_ let you start a war!!! As a Knight of the Coast, Lieutenant First Class, it is my duty to protect the innocent, regardless of creed or country." Gipson was alive with fury. He turned and squared off with Domino, who held the wand as ever, up and menacing. "Get one last feel for it, Chuck, because in five minutes you won't have a hand to use it with!"

Domino unsheathed an off-hand wand and set his eyes to kill, assuming with his body a battle stance.

"Proposition failed," he told Garland and the princess, "Just like I told you it would. Recommend termination."

Garland bit his lip, and then he shook his head like you did to someone passing up the greatest deal in his life.

"Very well, I'll cede to your judgment."

Gipson sprung forward with a wide swipe of the dragon sword, and a misfired bolt of lighting snapped on the ceiling, sending the foundation into rumbles and loosing large stone bricks, which fell in a haze of dust.

"_Wait!_" a defiant voice screamed over the contest. Gipson and Domino, half a second from going into each other again halted with bitter looks and turned to the source. It was Doctor Sylum who had stood out and brought them to a stop. He looked very strong, and yet at the same time infinitely weak. "Just wait."

"This is the only way, Doctor!" Gipson defended.

"No, no that's not true," Sylum defended right back, then he paused a good time where he seemed to be trying to pull the words from deep within him, from his gut, but also from the darkest skirts of his mind. "They … they're right." An even more potent agony flushed over then. "We should join them."

"_Professor!!!_" Seville and Edrick shouted in unison.

"_Sylum!!!_" Gipson added with even more energy. Had they been looking, they would have seen Garland take two small steps back, cross his arms, and smile.

"If there's a way we can win then we should do that!" Sylum argued.

"That is not winning!" yelled the knight.

"Yes," the professor said straight into Gipson's face, and then he looked back and forth between his friends, "Yes it is! Think of it! Every man, woman, and child in the world will know our names. We'll be famous!"

"At what price?" Seville asked, completely and utterly in shock.

"A price I've already paid," the doctor answered darkly.

Gipson roared and charged upon Sylum, bringing the long sword quite near his throat, and grimacing with disgust.

"_Traitor!!!_"

Sylum slapped Gipson's sword to the side with the Werebane.

"I don't apologize for the world's weakness!" An astonishing anger trilled in his voice. He raised the Werebane into a battle position and, the edge crossed against the legendary knight. Gipson marked him strategically with a counter-position of his own.

"I have seen you with a sword, doctor. This isn't a path you want to take. This isn't winning, I assure you."

"I'm defending what I believe!" Sylum said, nearing delirium.

"Professor, Master Gipson, please…" Edrick attempted to plea, but neither was listening. Seville moved closer to intercept them, but he was afraid to get in striking distance.

"I'll give you one move, doctor, but after that we're doing battle, and I will be myself from that point on. It won't last but one move longer."

Seville hedged closer, warning hands out and frightened.

"This can't happen," he said as if it were metaphysical certitude. Sylum nodded then, and Seville could only assume it was to him.

"Remember…" the doctor then said to Gipson. "Remember that I saved your life."

There Sylum sliced his blade at Gipson who easily blocked with his primary hand and then went in with his off-hand short sword. More dexterous than he had ever let on, Sylum wrenched the Werebane backwards over his hand and blocked the attack, stepping backwards quickly from the force of it. Gipson growled and approached, and Sylum found his balance and his grip on the blade.

Twice more the knight went into the fray, and twice more Sylum found himself stumbling out of it alive and uncut. Gipson was furious, making sloppy attempts with the dragon sword that Sylum could just defend, though getting more and more fatigued with every bone-aching repel.

"Stop this! Stop this!" Edrick was screaming over the battle, but the combatants were set in this contest until it was done.

Gipson practically rounded on Sylum, dizzying him in a wind of the blue aura from the dragon sword, but at every strike Sylum managed to have his own sword there to block it. Then Gipson made a swift jab with the short sword, which Sylum fenced away but at the loss of his footing. Careening backwards with flailing arms, Sylum could almost feel the hard stone cracking into his skull but at the final moment his body was jerked sideways from the right arm and a gruesome yelp pierced the echoing walls. The sharp sound still ringing in his ears, Sylum jaunted his head up and was immediately blinded by a rain of blood that trickled around his glasses and pasted his eyes. The split-second image he had had time to receive was of Seville, his mouth agape, his eyes scrunched, and his chest ripped through.

"_No! Seville!_" Edrick cried, running so quickly to the rogue's aid that he tripped over Sylum's legs.

At first Seville was too surprised to feel the pain. Beginning at the collar bone just under his throat and stretching downwards diagonally towards his side was a blood-soaked canyon of flesh, the crevice so deep he could make out the flecks of white bone from his rib cage. His dull maroon blood flooded out down his shirt and legs, and his chest and left arm uncontrollably twitched. Then the momentous pain seized his muscles, his nerves shot on and off, he was instantly light-headed, and as the world began to rotate fiendishly around him he realized his legs had given way and he was staring hopelessly at the ceiling. Hard breaths came one at a time.

"No, Seville, no!" the priest pleaded, crawling to Seville and wiping the blood from his face.

Herrik Gipson was halted at first, an icy blizzard shooting through his veins, but soon they were replaced by the hottest of fires and his eyes glowered at Sylum, who was still entirely awe-struck and frightened at the ruined sight of Seville. The doctor dropped the carnal weapon like a man whipping away a serpent, as if it would make him strike again. He wiped the guilty blood from his eyes and slapped away his glasses in confusion and frustration, moving slowly the whole time on his elbows and feet. He couldn't see what was around him; he only felt the burning sensation of the salty blood in his eyes and saw black-splotched cuts of activity around him.

From Gipson's perspective this traitor was crawling away from his fate, trying to avoid what he'd done. The knight had never known such anger. He bellowed his fury so powerfully it echoed down the distant halls and returned to them, and then he charged the prone Sylum, who turned in fright from the noise. Gipson impacted his foot solidly into Sylum's shoulder, and the doctor flung onto his back

He had the audacity to raise his arms and defend himself, and that only made Gipson angrier. The knight reared his sword high like some righteous demon slayer and saw at that last moment how Sylum's tears mixed with the blood in his eyes to give him the impression of crying that very blood.

"Please!" Sylum begged helplessly, "I don't want to die!"

But Gipson had made up his mind. With a swift punch the blade pierced through Sylum's belly, and the doctor wrenched up in a spasmodic flinch, unintentionally digging the sword deeper until it exited through his back. Sylum coughed and felt at the weapon through his belly before walloping pulses of agony made it too difficult to even sit up, and he fell to his side, curled in a limp fetal position, looking away from everything.

Gipson was suddenly sick all over, sick with fear, with anger, and with guilt. Every extremity tingled with anxiety, paranoia, so violent a sensation his hands shook and his knees trembled. He forgot what was happening around him, stopped hearing the tear-filled cries of Edrick, and was beyond Seville's choking gasps for life. All that remained was the feeling, flushing into his pores like a poisonous gas, striking him so harshly about his throat he could barely breathe. He dropped to his knees and stared at his hands like foreign things, awful things. His dementia was only broken by a sudden white heat from behind him that lit the whole of the room brightly. Instantaneously the situation rushed back to him.

"Edrick! No!" he called even before he spun to see that it was true, only he was too late.

Edrick's hands were held over Seville's dying body, white wispy air fluttering between his fingers.

"You can't die on me!" the priest assured, finally certain of his spell. He thrust his hands into Seville's chest, and the vibrant positive energy beat through the rogue in hot shockwaves. Seville's eyes shot open, and his mouth sucked in a vacuous breath. The wound rippled and stirred, the patchy walls of flesh flapped, but nothing healed. Instead, bruise-black rivulets slithered like worms down Seville's right arm until the rot had grown to his fingertips. His palm was dull purple. He didn't seem to be breathing.

"_No!_" Edrick shouted. "Don't fail me now!"

He began to shake his hands feverishly to work another cure spell into them, but just when the brilliant aura had enwrapped his hands once more an arm craned around his chest and pulled him away from Seville.

"No, Edrick!" Gipson warned. "You mustn't!"

"I have to help him! Master Gipson, please!"

"You can't, Edrick, you can't!"

The priest looked the knight over with a visage of the most severe boyish fright, the color so faded from his face even his freckles had evaporated. His cleric's robes were freshly dyed red.

"But I must try!"'

"You can't, Edrick, to try is to kill him faster!"

"How can you say that?" Edrick pushed himself from Gipson's grasp and pulled away as if Gipson was conspiring against him. Gipson dropped his head and searched for the words to explain. Why must it come out now?

"The scars, the blackness on his arm and neck; it is called ghost rot, and it feeds off your white magic. He cannot be healed."

The utter horror sucked enough color from Edrick's face that it was transparent, and pitiful tears washed through his eyes.

"But … but there must be something…"

"No, there's no cure. There's nothing we can do."

"It can't be!"

"It is!"

Edrick looked at Seville who was breathing once again, but very spastically and painfully. His eyes were open and delirious, his hands clamoring aimlessly about the blood-wet stone floor, his feet doing the same, his mouth clapping open and closed like he was muttering shouts, only they were noiseless. Teardrops rolled down Edrick's face. How could there be nothing he could do? Why hadn't Seville told him?

Much like a boy entirely out of his league, Edrick fought through those painful, hiccupping sobs and tugged Gipson by the arm.

"Seville can't die!"

Gipson had been looking the wound over but then he turned to the priest and dropped his voice.

"Edrick, I'm afraid … I mean … with that bleeding … there's just no way…"

"I think we can abort the mission," said a completely forgotten voice then.

"You're right. They're not much good to us now. Okay, go ahead and get out of here, we'll need to start by tomorrow, I'll finish this."

Gipson curled his fingers into a fist, bared his teeth, and looked at the three at the table who had done no more than stand and watch. Domino and Moira picked up a few pouches and bags that were scattered on the floor and made for the hallway, leaving Garland there. The knight unsheathed a fresh sword slowly and angrily, dramatizing that metal _shink_ as he pulled it, digging his deadly gaze right into Garland's face. For once Garland looked pensive, that perpetual pompousness finally put to rest.

"There is much darkness in your heart, Master Knight. You seem very familiar with what it is to hate," as he spoke, Garland inconspicuously brought his hands together. "I wonder why that is."

"Save it!" Gipson commanded.

"I _think_ it is because you … are not real…"

"_I've had enough!_" The knight hollered and he lunged forward with his sword aimed straight for Garland's heart. But in only two steps the ground beneath him felt like little more than air and he toppled forward into a mass of shadows, the black, insectival monsters with tendril-claws, beacon-yellow eyes, and smooth bulbous heads. Instantly he couldn't breathe, could hardly move. They grappled his throat, twisted at his limbs until the bones ached, and scratched at his skin. How many, he couldn't tell, but it felt like hundreds.

He thought he heard Edrick yelling for him in some distant place, but that voice distorted, jumped octaves, and spoke nonsense. He was really just hearing his own insanity, he thought.

"Kill them," Garland ordered his dark children, and then he wiped down his purple shirt, and then his jeans, like a gardener finished with a hard day's work, and he sauntered lazily towards the exit.

Edrick could feel his presence as Garland passed behind him, felt it like the passing of a devil, a soulless, heartless being of death. He shivered throughout, but didn't turn to stop him, knowing he couldn't. Knowing he couldn't do _anything_. Garland was gone from the room and they were alone with their failure. Seville had gripped Edrick by his robe, tried to pull him forward, tried to speak, but all that escaped was blood down the sides of lips, tracing jagged patterns over his pale cheeks.

"I want to help you," Edrick told Seville, unsure of whether or not his friend could hear him at all, hoping to find something truly important to say. A convulsion waved through Seville's body, making him yelp and cringe inwards over his gut. Edrick laid Seville once more on his back and used the sleeve of his robe to wipe away the stagnant sweat that mottled red on his cheeks and throat.

A tortuous screaming sound rang across the room, so screechy it nabbed Edrick in his spine and he bounced over Seville's body, overtaken with nerve. Scanning for the source he saw the air fluttering with the black shadows, all of them flailing and gripping to each other for safety and eventually slapping hard into the stone floor all about the room. Spark light twinkled to Edrick's right, accompanied with the crisp sound of a sword scraping the stonework. He looked and saw Gipson, brandishing _Drâco_ proudly, eyes obsidian-black with intensity, fresh cuts down his face, through his shirt, and over his arms. So many wounds his skin looked red enough to match his hair.

"You think you can kill me with a couple bugs!!!" he shouted at the man who was no longer there. "I'm _Herrik freakin' Gipson!!!_"

The raging knight marched to the closest hobbling shadow, underhanded a deft swipe, and bisected its head. It pranced backwards like a beheaded chicken and then tripped to the floor which it then melded, once again, back into. The other shadows began to hop madly and gaze their beaming eyes at Gipson. In their dancing kind of walk they very slowly approached, all together.

"What are you waiting for? Come kill me!"

Edrick lay as close to Seville as he could, keeping his head low and inconspicuous; the shadows seemed little interested in him. The shadows fanned outwards, creating a wide semicircle around the knight, who continued to stand with the dragon sword ready and a fearsome scowl on his battered face. He took a dagger in his off-hand as the dark creatures closed in.

"Edrick…" said a weak voice, and the priest shot his eyes to Seville hopefully, but he had his face turned to the side and was just doing his best to breathe.

"Edrick…" the pitiful voice said again.

A pressure the weight of a boulder sunk in Edrick's chest as he realized the only other possible person who could be speaking. He glanced carefully over his shoulder and saw that Professor Sylum had turned himself around and was staring deadly at Edrick, his arms slung limply before him and his livid face, tricking with blood from his mouth, pressed against one of the blocks of the floor. Only his mouth moved, very slowly.

"Edrick … I can help him…"

The priest was staunched on his knees and fingertips as if he would suddenly need to break away in some sprinting run, and he looked between Seville and Sylum with a quiver running consistently over his bottom lip. He shook his head uncertainly.

"Edrick, please… I can help him…"

"Done enough, haven't you?" Fresh, urgent tears swelled in Edrick's eyes.

"I can help him…"

"You can't!" the priest defied, his voice cracking into a squeal.

"No, you don't know that…" Sylum crept one of his arms in Seville's direction, grabbed as tightly between a groove in the stone as he could, and pulled himself inch at a time towards the rogue. The sword sticking through him dragged along and made a horrid screeching sound.

"You should stay back!" Edrick said, but Sylum continued to approach.

Two of the shadow creatures were flattened forcefully into the temple wall which they defensively reabsorbed themselves into, and with a pointed dash Gipson circled a squad of five and slapped at them with the broad end of the Dragon Sword. When struck hard enough the shadows popped like melons, their individual bits splaying about the room and sinking into the floor.

When on the attack they were fierce and quick, rapidly pouncing one after another at Gipson's backside while he jabbed feverishly at the hordes before him. For every one he killed, three more seemed to drift up out of the floor and gnash their claws against this combat. Gipson spun unexpectedly and skewered three bodies on the end of his blade and he launched them off with a hard jerk to the front, the catapulted shadows knocking through the offensive lines and scattering the army.

They shook their spherical heads, but before they could reorient themselves the master knight was already upon them with two blades, chopping heads and limbs with single strokes.

A brave shadow leapt to his face and scratched as violently as it could before Gipson could pierce it through with his dagger and punch it to the side. Fresh running wounds clouded his vision long enough for three more of the demons to run beneath him and pummel the backs of his knees so that they jerked forward instinctively and he fell to his face. A wild attempt with the longsword behind his back dethroned the imminent attackers but when he tried to regain the sword for another attack five of the creatures had already grabbed hold of it and torn it from his grasp. Twenty of the shadows piled on top of Gipson and those that could sank in their claws.

"Don't come any closer!" Edrick shouted at the very slowly approaching Doctor Sylum, who left a wine dark streak of the blood in his path. Black blood.

"I have to … I have to try …" Sylum muttered, hardly able to put together two words. Though his mouth opened and closed as he gulped the flowing blood away, and though his arms were frantic and nearly unmanageable, Sylum's sickly white, alien-looking eyes were unflinching, their gaze deadlocked on Seville, whose own eyes were closed as if he was sleeping. Harsh breaths came and went from the rogue, each one as if it was the last.

"If he could be helped, I would do it!" Edrick defended. "I would do anything!"

"I can help him…" Sylum persisted as he crawled, now quite close.

Edrick made to warn the doctor again but his tongue was choked in his throat by a bright yellow flash and accompanying explosion. A new wave of shadows shuttled past, most of them in several pieces. When the echoing flurry of noise settled low enough they made out the sound of Gipson howling. Edrick slapped a chunk of shadow off of Seville's legs and twisted to see Gipson just as the orange fire was dissipating away. His shirt was bitten over with burn holes and two of the great red steeples of hair were noticeably singed away. Gipson threw the remains of the glass decanter from his fire potion to the side and began to look about vacantly. The two shadows that had not been consumed by the powerful blast looked at each other, and then sank away into the ground. The dark army had been defeated.

When his bearings rushed back to him the first thing Gipson said was "Stop!", with his dagger jousted towards Sylum. Gipson stood and bounded to Seville in three great strides, never dropping his readied weapon, but still falling weakly by the rogue's side as his many wounds began to get the better of him.

"You stay back!" he shouted, looking as if it had taken him twice the normal air to say it in. Though his lips were tightly shut he seemed to be biting and his breaths became more and more difficult. His skin was terribly perforated with gashes, some dangerously deep.

"Master Gipson, be still, I'll cure you."

"I'm fine! Don't come any closer, doctor, or I'll finish what I started right now!" Gipson pointed twice with the dagger tip and glowered.

"If you want to save Seville's life then you must trust me."

"_Trust you!_" Gipson stammered. "You've given up your trust!"

Sylum stopped crawling not two feet from Seville's side and he pressed himself up as high as he could and jostled himself around to his side, slowly making his way to his knees. The hilt of the short sword stuck through him was shaded in dark blood, the same that ran to the base of his legs.

"You hit my liver, I will be dead in minutes," he pleaded. "But I may be able to help Seville. You must let me!"

"He cannot be cured!" Gipson hollered. "It feeds off white energy!"

"Not all magic is white or black…" Sylum slumped himself onto his behind and examined Seville's malicious wound as best he could at that distance. When he ducked his head closer, Gipson met it with his dagger and warded the professor back. "No, please! Whatever you believe about my faith, whatever you believe about my loyalty, you must put that to the side. I know you have never questioned my knowledge."

"What would you do?!" Gipson snapped.

"Please…" never had a more sincere word passed Gipson's ears. The knight looked at Seville, barely breathing, and he looked at Sylum who had minutes at best. With almost painful restraint, he dropped the dagger and looked the traitor over coldly.

"Whatever it is, do it, and hurry. You don't have any time left!"

Sylum nodded and lifted his arm out.

"Help me," he requested. "Pull me closer, I can't move my legs."

Gipson did so immediately. Sylum slumped to his side, knees bent with his legs flat on the floor and tucked under him, propping himself on one tired arm. The wound was as deep as he remembered, not really deadly but for the blood loss, which by the looks of the murky red pool to Seville's left was already substantial.

"He's fatigued," Sylum said, watching Seville's face for signs of consciousness. "He's too tired from shock to open his eyes, but he has some time."

"But we can't cure him!" Edrick stated blankly, and Sylum nodded it away.

"The bleeding will have to be stopped."

"It's impossible!" Gipson raged.

"No," was all that Sylum answered, slowly fishing his trembling hand into one of his trench coat's many pockets. He removed a small wooden jewelry box with a latch that clicked in his shaking hand. Sylum gulped hard twice and the trembles subsided a little; he opened the box delicately. Inside was a something that looked like a long sewing needle and also something that looked a little bit like thread, only thicker. Then Sylum pulled a vial from another pocket, immediately recognized as some of his morphine.

"Make him drink this!" he ordered, a task that Gipson went directly to.

After several attempts Sylum threaded the needle with the thick wire and tied it into a small knot on that end. He studied the long, deep cut once more and took a few more calming gulps. He had become very lightheaded.

"Seville … my friend …" Sylum wiped away a layer of Seville's sweat from the rogue's face with his hand. "…I'm so sorry. And … if you can hear me … this is going to hurt a lot."

Then with the final precise motion he might ever be capable of, Sylum grabbed the jutting skin at the base of the cut and stabbed the needle through.

"What are you doing?!" Edrick shrieked in terror, rounding Gipson into rearming the dagger.

"I'm sewing him shut," Sylum answered plainly as the needle stretched across the chasm of the wound and exited out the skin on the other side. "It's called surgery. The Leifens did it, since they didn't have white magic they developed many other forms of healing."

"But you're hurting him!"

"It might save his life. Be quiet!"

Sylum continued one stitch at a time, the black thread pulling Seville's parted skin together tightly. At times Sylum's hands began to shake so tremendously again that he stopped and put the needle, closed his eyes, and just breathed, a sour yellow complexion painting in shades onto his face.

Gipson and Edrick were silent and still, the tension wrapping them in a stifling heat, and they never offered help or made further threats. They let Sylum do it, whatever it was, and he never looked at them for approval, his eyes, when they managed to be open were direct and severe, watching his procedure with what care his delirious mind would allow. The surgery was half done then, and Seville was still sleeping.

"When I finish you get him out of here!" Sylum commanded. "The temple will try to poison his wound, and he is not strong enough to fight it. Get him as far away as you can, and give him more of the morphine if it looks like he needs it."

An incredible numbing sensation flushed through Sylum's body and he fell to the side and smacked the floor. He tried to shake it off but realized he couldn't even feel it, or anything for that matter. The final moment had come, his nerves were giving out. Even in his fingertips he felt nothing. The pain from the sword had vanished into a dreamy state of perpetual floating. He thought he could move, but the world around him drifted in mosaics when his eyes shifted.

He coughed a clot of blood out and it hung fresh from his chin. Hands moist with the black signs of his impending death, he grabbed for the needle and tried to finish his task, lost for feeling.

"Professor," Edrick said meekly, no longer understanding right from wrong from anything else, "I … can fix you, ya know? I will still cure you if you ask me to."

The priest expected to have the knight glaring down on him, but Gipson was resigned and his face was emotionless.

"No … I wouldn't … be … able to … bear it…" Sylum responded monotonically, finishing another stitch with his left hand and palming dumbly into one of his pockets with is right hand. With great effort he extracted a thin, leather bound book, already damp with his own blood. He tossed it at Gipson.

"You … give this … to him … when … he wakes up …"

Gipson opened the cover of the short tome.

"No …" Sylum reprimanded. "For … him!"

The book was snapped shut.

The final sutures were the slowest, with Sylum dropping his head and closing his eyes every half-minute, each pause longer than the one before. Once they thought Sylum had actually died, but he returned each time as if he'd been dozily slumbering for years at a stretch. In fact, Sylum didn't even realizing he was doing it, as from each wake he began exactly where he was before, never skipping a beat to reacquaint himself. With one final gush of energy the professor closed the wound, tied the wire into a scraggily knot, and pulled the needle away.

"Go …" by now Sylum's voice was barely audible. "Keep … pressure…"

He jaunted forward onto the palms of his hands and watched the blood from his mouth drip onto the floor, suddenly overtaken with his final feeling: cold.

Gipson nodded to Edrick, who was wiping messy tears from his face and sniffing repeatedly. They stood and looked down at Sylum, eyes unbearably drawn to the black bloody sword protruding from his back. The professor was still like a statue, a perched gargoyle. He was content to kneel there and bleed. Neither could find words to say.

Gipson lifted Seville carefully off the ground, and motioned Edrick to the hallway, That walk was the longest either had ever had in his life, dragging one of their compatriots to his likely death, and leaving another behind to his certain one. Gipson had had enough, so he didn't plan to drag it out any longer, and when he came to the threshold he just kept walking, but Edrick turned. Sylum had not moved, but Edrick could make out that his eyes were open, often blinking. The priest waved his hands to signal the rights of passage and sniffed again.

"I'm sorry," was all he thought to say then, and he turned and followed Gipson down the hall.

Sylum noticed first how quiet it was, when finally the footsteps had passed even their faintest echo. Even the temperate, nostalgic crackle of torch fire seemed muted and distant, and eventually not there at all. Sylum wondered if they had gone out because it had become much darker in the room in the past minutes. But when he looked they were burning as they always would, long after he had rotted to a skeleton.

Cataclysmic images wanted to take over his mind, terrible forewarnings of guilt and damnation, but they couldn't. In his brain, what was left of it, things were tranquil and motionless. There was no color but white, but a calm, dormant kind of white that caressed you in its feathery embraces. For the first time in a long time it was pleasant.

Then his arms gave out and he was lying on that temple floor staring along the plane of existence and becoming more and more awestruck by the second at how astonishingly white everything was. Then he couldn't even hold his eyes open to see it, and that was too discouraging to accept.

Doctor Darrin Sylum took his final breath, and died.

Every long hallway was nothing to their funeral march; they passed as if they were but inches long. Every path they could choose only led one direction: out of the Temple of Fiends. The dying man in Gipson's arms never stirred, even when their journey had brought them out this dungeon and into a bleak early morning. Gipson and Edrick kept going, farther and farther, mourning all the living and the dead.


	15. Final Mending

Lux Aeterna

by

Steven Mayo

Book I The Meager

Chapter 15 Final Mending

"Stop!"

"What?"

"Put him down. Here!"

"What is it?"

"He's not breathing…"

Gipson placed Seville on his back in the dew-moist grass, and felt under his nose for signs of life, but the rogue had turned cold. Edrick circled around nervously, drumming his fingers on his robe and saying short prayers under his breath. The rollicking, airy sounds of the ocean crashed in the background, and the early morning sun was blocked by a wooly veil of gray clouds stretching as far as could be seen. Complexions of subtle pink and dark turquoise painted over the scene.

"Can't we do something?" Edrick asked hopelessly.

"I don't know about this stuff, this is what we have cure spells for," Gipson said, scratching the place where some of his hair had burned away and creasing his lips furtively into a frown.

"Is he still bleeding?"

Gipson undraped the tattered cloth they had dressed the wound in and wiped away what blood there was that hadn't dried to the skin. The cut was ghastly to look at; human flesh scored and stitched together like fabric. However, the bleeding had stopped.

"No, that's stopped, but he already lost so much, I just don't think…"

"Don't think it!" Edrick snapped and the knight nodded in return. Seconds passed like hours. Edrick eventually fell to his knees and took the dying man with his hands on either side of his face and looked, for once not at the wound, but at the face, and pleaded for survival.

"Come on, Seville, come on! Don't die on me! You can't!" He didn't cry like he expected, perhaps he was too overcome with emotion to do even that. "I couldn't even save you. I'm the cleric and I couldn't even save you!"

Edrick growled in anger and thrust himself away and began to pace once again.

"His heart still beats, Edrick, he is not dead yet…" the knight comforted as he felt for the pulse at Seville's throat. Edrick had nothing to say to it.

Gipson sat on his knees and overlooked the rogue who was utterly still and silent, so much so it was surreal. He seemed even quieter than the dead somehow. Gipson placed a hand just below Seville's heart and entwined his other hand atop that, and then he pushed with a firm stroke into Seville's chest.

"What is that?"

"Saw it once before, man had stopped breathing, thought it might be worth … a try," said Gipson, adding another stroke. Seville's limp body shook but nothing resembling life returned.

"You could hurt him!" Edrick shrieked.

"Anything's worth the risk right now!" Gipson pumped again; nothing.

"He's turning gray!" trilled the priest.

"You will_ not_ die on me!" The knight barked hotly and he powerfully jousted his hand into Seville's chest once more. The rogue immediately started coughing frantically, hacking fresh clots of blood from his mouth that splayed into the air and mostly landed on his cheeks and forehead. He coughed for the whole of thirty seconds, and Gipson or Edrick thought to do nothing but stand back and see what happened. Finally the fit passed and Seville's lungs filled with lively oxygen, his breaths were deep and caressing. But his eyes stayed closed and his body basically motionless.

"Seville…" Edrick whispered hopefully.

The rogue slowly opened his eyes and blinked several times. The frigid lavender hues of the eastern sunrise, still captured in clouds, playing across his moist eyes so that they glittered like marbles. Besides the thin, dark iris, they were solid white. A minute passed, with only more silence from any of them as the rogue watched the crown of storm clouds like an awestruck newborn. Finally, Edrick spoke again, still at a meek, frightful whisper.

"Seville…"

The rogue turned his head and the white, red, and dusty brown colors of Edrick's robes slowly set into focus, followed just after by Edrick's trembling and more innocently boyish than ever face. The priest's hands were brought together into a prayer.

"Eddie…" Seville said weakly, and his eyes closed again.

"No, stay with us!!!" Edrick shouted, but Seville was already asleep. "Seville!"

"Let him be!" Gipson ordered as Edrick dropped to Seville's side and shook him, "Edrick! Let him be."

"What if he doesn't…"

"He's breathing and he's alive, that's enough to ask for now."

Edrick peered at Gipson like a lost puppy, but finally nodded and stood back up, unable to pull his eyes then from Seville, waiting for him to wake once again. He flicked his bowled hair downwards on each side.

"How could he do it, Master Gipson?"

The knight inhaled and exhaled deeply, as if a child had just asked him the big question.

"I don't … I'm not sure I understand the doctor's actions. Besides, _this_…" indicating Seville with a wave of his hand, "…was an accident. Sylum would never hurt Seville intentionally, I'm sure of that at least. This is just a situation that got way out of hand.

"But why?"

"He tried to warn me, I think," Gipson spoke very slowly and bitterly. "Yesterday, in the forest, he tried to warn me that this might happen, but I didn't see it. I didn't realize exactly what he was saying."

"What _did_ he say?" Edrick was looking for things to take his mind away from Seville, who was still breathing softly and quietly.

"I didn't catch it then, I tried too hard to be myself, you know, optimistic and firm, but unlike most people that didn't have any effect on the doctor. In a roundabout way, what he told me was that failure wasn't an option. But that's just what we've done…"

"What?"

"Failed," Gipson answered shortly, and then his lips curled more tightly. "I've never failed, not like this."

"First time for everything?" Edrick said, trying to cast a gentler light on what Gipson was obviously brooding very deeply inside.

"Yes sir, Edrick, yes sir. Things change, and once again I wasn't ready for it. I acted rashly, stupidly. I … I murdered our companion."

"At that moment he would have done the same, Master Gipson!"

"Yeah, but at least he seemed to have a reason. Me, I'm just stuck, stuck in how I am. I'm too old, Edrick."

"Stop turning this into self-abuse," Edrick said with a rather sharp twist of his voice. "What happened, happened, and though it shouldn't have, it did. That's something we're just gonna have to get over. Far as I'm concerned it's everyone's fault, because we've spent all this time trying to be something we're not. The professor's death proves it, we're not light warriors. We're nothing! We're meager!"

"We're just us, Edrick, just us, and we tried to do something good. It came back and got us this time, but you know what, at least we tried, and we tried hard."

Edrick opened his mouth to speak, but realized he actually had nothing to say. He checked Seville over again; he was the same, then Edrick swallowed thickly and just nodded, letting the empty sounds of this shady morning fill the silence. Five uneasy minutes rolled sluggishly by.

"You see that?" Gipson asked, pointing towards the ocean.

"What?" Edrick asked back as he scanned the tides.

"The waves…" said Gipson importantly, "…so violent."

A small stretch of grass lay before them and then it slowly was overtaken by a wide beach that itself was washed away by a swelling ocean of gray. Murky crests collided into each other and hissed jets of water tumultuously onto the beachhead, the waves heaving to incredible heights in the distance and shuttling in at perilous speeds, like some great play to appease the dormant depths. The stormy waters raged to the very end of their sight.

"The sailors have said the sea is too dangerous these days," Edrick responded timidly, looking for Gipson's point.

"But feel the air," Gipson suggested, lifting his arm out.

"What?"

"The wind…"

Edrick realized how static the atmosphere was, not a single current of wind beating upon him. It was completely still.

"There's none," the priest responded.

"And yet the seas rage…" Gipson mused, and Edrick had no thought to add.

"Come on. Let's go."

Gipson checked for signs of life once more, and then took Seville back into his arms.

"The road is long."

Gipson and Edrick walked for the rest of the day.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Though the portentous clouds had passed by the second day, the air remained still and temperate, the ground beaten without sincerity by the rays of a cold sun. Things had begun to noticeably change, most immediately the incredible staleness of the dead wind. And as if the jostling motion of those winds had given the trees reason enough to survive, they too were dying. Entire patches of forest had their floors strewn with a carpet of orange and brown leaves, wholly unbefitting the summer. And the bark was already graying, not like the hibernating trees of winter but the stony, petrified trees of the haunted forest. It was not so far gone that death was impending, but it was unmistakably apparent, and perhaps that was enough.

By the peak of the afternoon the air was chill; cold in some supernatural way that traced unceasing trickles down Edrick's spine. Even though the clouds had passed, it was not bright as a summer day was. The vividness of the entire world had been muted. They both saw it, Edrick and Gipson, but couldn't think of what to say on it. The priest found himself wishing that Professor Sylum was there; he might have known something. Despite the immense respect that Edrick had for Herrik Gipson, he couldn't help this nagging feeling that they were lost, if not physically, then some other way. How could something so simple go so wrong, he wondered with a sour taste in his mouth. Most of all he was tired, tired of pain.

"No wildlife," Gipson said randomly, assuming that Edrick might not have considered that one, which to be honest, he hadn't. The priest nodded anyways.

"No birds."

The only sounds that played in the air were their own footsteps and the sagging noise of the ocean, which fought its civil war as tempestuously as ever.

"Makes our trip a little safer, I suppose," Gipson said for no real reason, conversation maybe.

"We never came across much trouble we didn't get ourselves into."

"That's true," Gipson returned matter-of-factly. "But I'm not much in the mood for imps and wolves. They don't seem to be around."

Edrick heard that and looked at Gipson's injuries, which the knight had never let him heal, but in a day and a half they already looked much less severe. The way Gipson healed was unrealistically fast, though given that he'd taken a fire potion at immediate range, Gipson was still not looking his best. Along with the two steeples of hair that were strikingly absent, his eyebrows were gone, along with most of his arm hair. He'd washed the blood away in an especially shallow stream, and came out looking like some beaten, sad version of himself. This was a Herrik Gipson that no one had ever seen; this was the first time that Herrik Gipson looked old.

"I'm tired," said Edrick.

"At least a little further, I want to get past the forest. We're less likely to be attacked on the other side," in all truth, Gipson just didn't want to stop moving. The thought of resting at a time like this was despicable to him. "Besides, the further we get from the Temple of Fiends, the better, right?"

They had already made many miles from the temple, but Edrick found he could agree that farther was always better when talking about the dark palace. He was realizing as they walked solemnly along the Western shores that he had made it out just fine. He'd only been injured once and never almost died. Realizing that made him angry, and when he thought of how helpless he was to aid Seville, he felt useless. Not good for battle, not good for magic, not good for handling people, not good for anything. Edrick didn't want to talk much after that.

Things were uncomfortable. They both felt like they were some place out of time, not really walking through the Cornerian countryside but in some dimensional equal without consequence. They felt unreal, unable to grapple themselves once more to the constraints of being. It was disorienting.

"Uh…" said a voice.

"Edrick! Here!"

"Seville?"

"Uh…"

The rouge's eyes were just opened, thought his limbs still hung where they would. He didn't seem at first to understand where he was, and was content to absorb the blue-gray sky above him that sluggishly melded into a single solid picture.

"Seville?" Edrick asked again with all eagerness.

Seville brought his right arm to his scalp and scratched aim it aimlessly, and then he put it back down as if it had tuckered him out. Piece by piece he realized what was going on.

"Seville?" Edrick tried once more.

"Set me down," Seville managed to say to Gipson, who had already stopped walking. The knight placed him gently on the grass and took a step back to give him room. Seville seemed short of breath, as he absorbed deep inhalations as he lay on the ground with his left arm straight out to his side and his right arm tucked over onto the healthy side of his chest, still looking not at his friends but at the dull of hues of the sky, still not entirely aware of his surroundings. Certainly he did not know where or when.

"You gonna stay with us this time?" Gipson asked, for the first time in awhile putting on one of his friendly smiles.

"What day is it?"

"You slept for a whole day, Seville. The temple is two mornings past."

"Where are we?" Seville questioned further, collecting his bearings.

"We're on the western coast, we've been trailing it since yesterday. We've another thirty miles to the city."

"City? Corneria?" Seville asked, presently slow on the uptake, with even a little edginess in his question.

"Of course. It's time to get you and Edrick home." Gipson was cordial with his words and delivered them with a grin. Edrick remained antsy on the sidelines.

"Home…" Seville mused, and he looked like he wanted to sit up, but when he moved his left arm to press himself up he yelped and felt a sour tug on his chest.

"Probably don't want to move that arm just yet. Don't strain yourself. Just relax and concentrate on being awake. I think you're gonna be okay," Gipson said that last part with a noticeable wink to Edrick, who exhaled and said a thank you to some higher power.

Seville saw Edrick for the first time and smiled at him, and then he looked back at Gipson, and then back again.

"Man, you guys look terrible!"

Gipson beamed at him.

"You're no prize yourself, Seville," Edrick joked, sitting down with his legs crossed so it would be easier on Seville's neck. Gipson did the same. Despite the bout of benevolence, when they looked to Seville once more his face had considerably fallen, and his eyes were indistinct in their aim, as if he was thinking. They both knew immediately what about, but to Seville to ask the question seemed frightful. He did so slowly and with a dire shift in his voice.

"What happened?" is what he asked. "To the professor?"

A thick, quiet moment sauntered by; Edrick looked to Gipson to answer.

"You were hit very badly by his sword, and though I'm sure he didn't intend it, I responded anyway and ran him through. _We_ couldn't cure you, of course, because of the ghost rot, but Sylum was able to close your wound by…" Gipson spoke next as if he still didn't believe it, "…sewing it up."

Seville nodded very slowly and flicked away the moist cloth covering his wound. When he saw the horrid sight he shot his head away and covered it back up.

"It'll take a lot of time to heal, you're lucky to be alive."

"I know that," Seville said shortly, and Edrick thought he knew what was really on Seville's mind at that point.

"I offered to cure him, Seville, I wanted to. But he wouldn't have it. I wanted to, I really did. I did."

"Without Edrick's cure there is no chance he would have survived his injury. I pierced his liver," Gipson said. He sounded incredibly forlorn to be recounting the bitter details but would not lie to Seville about the situation. They had hidden the fact of Seville's ghost rot so long and it had nearly claimed a life. From now on he would be upfront with the truth.

Seville nodded again.

"Why'd he do it, Seville?" the priest asked him, knowing that Sylum's only real friend in Corneria had been the rogue. Seville thought on it, but his memories of the events were terribly distorted. He still wasn't exactly sure what had happened. But one thing did stick in his mind like a needle: his most respected equal, Darrin Sylum, had betrayed him, had chosen fame over the lives of thousands. In his right hand, Seville gripped an angry fist.

"I don't know, Eddie…" was all his heart could bring him to say. "I don't know."

"Did he regret it, do you think?" Edrick asked.

"The professor is a man that would regret dying, even for something he believed in," Seville answered.

"He said he was sorry," said Gipson, "And I believed him."

"I would have too," said Seville.

They sat and listened to the churning ocean as Seville became more and more acquainted with his motor functions and he learned to avoid the gripping pain that surprised him from sudden jerks of his torso. Now it seemed only a matter of time and patience. Things would mend, as they always find a way to do. Seville, too, was noticing the empty voice of the air, free from birds and wind. A dark dream continued to play in his head.

"I'm afraid to go home," said Seville.

"Dunnings…" Edrick whispered. The knight gauged his words for a moment and placed them cautiously.

"You left your godfather on uneasy terms, I know, but he will welcome you. Perhaps there is one silver lining to your injured state. Certainly he can't come down to hard on you in your current condition."

"No, maybe not, but that will pass. What will always remain is that I've let him down once again."

"How?" Edrick argued. "What have you done?"

"Think about it, Eddie. Exactly how warmly do you expect our return to be received? I don't know what Domino was really intending with his article, but I could guess a couple of the effects it's going to have, or excuse me, already has had. We're a laughing stock, we just haven't returned to the public eye yet to really feel it."

"But Dunnings knows you?"

"And people know that," Seville said with conviction. "I've reflected badly on him. Again."

"I don't believe it is as bad as that," Herrik Gipson comforted. "Either way, what we have tried to do is admirable and I don't think people are going to look past that fact, despite how poorly we may have carried ourselves on occasion."

"It will be hard to explain," Seville suggested as he finally managed to sit up, with an acceptable tinge of pain down his side. "About the princess, I mean. What will we do?"

"Yeah," Edrick agreed, "What about Garland and Domino, and the King's war? It's still a reality isn't it?"

"We will wait and see, and if there is help we can render then we should do so, but I'm afraid our part in this tale is done. I recommend you both keep your heads low, try to avoid the spotlight."

Edrick stood up and stretched, all the while throwing his hands accusingly at Seville and scuffing his feet through the grass.

"Easy for him, maybe, but I'll have to report to the minister. Perhaps you didn't know this but a priest leaving his order without the direct sanction of the minister is a bit of a misstep in the career of religious authority."

Edrick seemed to be getting nervous once again.

"Even to save the world?" Seville joked.

"Oh please! Edrick Valance? Save the world? I don't think that one's gonna work, Seville!"

The rogue cuffed his chin a few times, pretending to be thinking on some difficult thesis, and then he nodded his head in approval.

"Yeah, you're probably right!"

Edrick returned an insincere smirk and chuckled.

"Don't worry, I'll put in a good word for ya with the minister. Tell him you performed masterfully. Cast spells and everything!"

"Shut up!" The two of them laughed and Gipson delighted in the chance to smile with them. He brushed his fire red hair upwards and stood to stretch as well. They laughed almost like they were actually having fun after all of this. Things mended further, just like they always do.

"So what about you, Master Gipson…" Seville questioned, craning his neck and squinting his eyes to see the mighty warrior against the brightening background of afternoon sun. Gipson gave him a cock-eyed look. "What are you going to do when you get back? Edrick and I have decided that we're screwed, hopefully you've got somethin' better lined up!"

"Oh, just another tale in the life of Herrik Gipson, I suppose. I still have a book tour to do. I wonder how this'll affect my sales," he glinted a clever smile at them with that, but then he stopped moving around in the grass and thought for a moment. His grin dimmed a bit. "First, I'll have to report to the Knights, give'em the heads up on what Garland and Domino are planning."

"And the princess!" Edrick added.

"Right, and the princess. If their little invention pops up anywhere I'll sound the alert, that'd be my duty. No, for the time being, Gents, I don't think I'm going anywhere."

The almost festive reaches of the conversation tapered away and a gloomy atmosphere crept over them; Gipson with his suddenly fierce eyes perched on the horizon line, Edrick pacing about with his fingers wrapped, and Seville looking down at his legs and chewing the air like rubber sap.

"What if Eliv starts a war?" Seville asked the silence, and Gipson picked up the tail end after a quiet moment.

"We can only hope he won't, and if so, that he can be stopped before it escalates to the scale that Garland predicts."

"But how can you cause something that … huge?" The priest asked with a hint of disgust in his voice. It was more a moral question than one of capability. Seville opened his mouth but Gipson beat him there.

"It doesn't seem possible, and though I'll admit that I don't have the brain for magical devices that I'm sure either of you have, Sylum seemed to believe that it would work. And so, I guess that adds enough credibility for me."

"You didn't feel the dream, Master Gipson, like I did. Or even you, Eddie. Going through what I went through, I believe … no, I _know_, that they can do it. They can do anything."

"But do you believe why they are doing it?" Edrick asked.

"You mean, war to end war? No, not for a second."

"Nor I," Gipson interrupted.

"The professor understood them best. They're politicians, they're in it for power."

"And as a general rule, I never trust a man that can summon demons," Gipson said randomly. The joke wasn't appreciated.

"No…" said Seville to fill the uncomfortable silence. Whenever that quiet crept over them they each realized how on edge they were. What Edrick felt made him understand that lost feeling a little more, than surreal, otherworldly state being he still thought he was inhabiting. What it really was was paranoia. The heavy air and dozing silences caged them in claustrophobia. This was something that Seville then proved he also detected, as he looked at the nearest lining of livid trees.

"They're out there," he said warningly.

"Yes," agreed Gipson solemnly.

"Just out there planning our doom."

"Nothing we can do about them today," the knight offered, wanting to toss Seville away from such a worrisome subject. What he wanted now was only for the rogue to heal, not rack his brains over what he may or may not have been able to control. With a hint of bitterness, Seville seemed to agree.

"There are still a lot of balls in the air, aren't there?" he half-queried.

"We'll catch them one at a time," Gipson said. "Whatever they may bring."

"Right!" the priest joined.

"It'll be complicated," the rogue warned.

"Well…" Gipson started, with a nostalgic smile. "Things change, don't they? Situations change. People change. All we can ever do is be ready for it. For once."

"Excellent!" Seville almost cheered. "I've got it! A little game to set us on our changing ways. No more static."

To his own and the others' surprise, Seville pushed off with his good arm and stood up, gleefully bright. If it had hurt it all he wasn't showing it now.

"Right now, think of one piece of advice and offer it out. What can we do to better ourselves for the time to come? Master Gipson, you first."

"What?" and the knight laughed heartily, looking even a tad bashful before hunkering down and looking as supremely serious as he could manage despite the other two cackling at his efforts. "Advice, huh? Well…"

Gipson scratched the fresh bald spot on his head, squinted his eyes, and even pretended to dance with anticipation of his own sage wisdom. Seville and Edrick got a definite kick out of it, but finally the knight waved them down and closed in.

"Okay, a piece of advice from me to you, in case we get to Corneria, I go off on tour, and never see you again, take this with you always." He paused for effect; each of them was smiling. "Do something different with every endeavor of your life, because you will not know it when the last one is upon you."

"Thoughtful sentiment," Seville mused with an overly fake stern impression on his face, which Gipson shook off like he would a heckler.

"Yeah, yeah," he said, "Good thing, you're next!"

"Nope! My game, my choice, and I choose to go last. Eddie, you're up."

"Ummm…" thought the priest, buying time. "I don't know, Seville."

"Please tell me that being skittish and indecisive isn't your sage wisdom."

"Quiet!" commanded Edrick, "I'm thinking!"

"I was wondering what the grinding sound was!" Seville and Gipson laughed.

Edrick thought it over, thought everything over. A sullen image played over and again in his mind, so potent it was there on the backs of his eyelids when he closed him. It was of his final sight of Sylum, stabbed and seconds from death, kneeling hopelessly in the middle of the temple room, denying his chance for life. Edrick had said he was sorry, and realized that the fact that he had let the man die would always follow his dreams. Sylum had asked Edrick to not cure him, but the priest felt strongly inside that at the time, it wasn't the professor's decision to make. Edrick knew his advice.

"Okay…"

"Finally!" Seville joked further, but when he saw how Edrick's face had turned, so did his own. Edrick spoke eulogistically.

"Never … never forget who your friends are, even when _they_ seem to."

Both Gipson and Seville even nodded like one does to a preacher in a eulogy, and perhaps in its own way, that's what Edrick's statement was: Darrin Sylum's eulogy.

A moment passed in which even the ocean seemed to stand still, and Edrick, nervous evermore of attracting attention, broke the ice.

"Your turn, Seville, don't try to get out of it."

"I already had mine prepared, thank you very much. Ready?"

"And waiting!" Gipson smirked.

"Well, you know what a life of crime has taught me, fellas?"

"What's that?"

"The world is just full of suckers!"

"That's your advice?" Edrick scoffed.

"No, no." Seville shot a haughty glance at Edrick who let it fly right past him with a delicious grin. "The world is full of suckers, and well, sometimes even _they_ can be happy."

Both Edrick and Gipson stared at him as if they expected him to say more, and Edrick tossed his hands out when it became obvious that he wasn't.

"I'm not sure I understand it, Seville."

"Yeah? Well, I tried my best. Sometimes that's all we can do."

"Hey! Two for the price of one!" Gipson coined.

"Right," Seville responded with a chuckle, and then he waved his good arm past both of them and said, "Enough! That deed is done, I'm tired of talking. Let's go home."

"Can you walk?"

"Of course, I can. If I've proven nothing else to you so far, I would think it would be that I have a high threshold for pain."

"To it, then!" Edrick rallied on.

Just as they turned, Gipson paused and stopped Seville with his hand.

"I forgot," he said, pulling a thin, leather-bound volume out of his pocket and handing it to Seville. "He asked me to give you this."

"What is it?"

"He wouldn't let me read it and find out. But it was his utmost concern in the moment. Obviously very important to him."

Still unable to use his left arm with any manner of precision, Seville tossed the book over in his right hand and looked the blank cover up and down, and then he carefully opened the front away to a delicately printed title page.

"_The Rogue_, by Darrin Sylum," is what Seville read aloud, and impressed but somehow stricken look drawing tightly on his face. He wiped it away just as quickly. "Huh! I didn't know he wrote fiction."

"I imagine there will be some significance for you here," Gipson said.

"No doubt, but, another day, I think." Seville looked at Edrick and the knight very sincerely and certainly. "I'm not ready to open that up just yet."

"Yeah, well, one of the good things about the future is that it's always ahead of you. You've got all the time in the world."

"For some things, you need it. Now where were we? Right! Let's get out of here!"

And there, the three friends set off for Corneria, not knowing what they would find when they got there, or which paths they would choose given those options. Seville wanted to think about everything, but somehow found it hard, with any coherency, to think about anything. Certainly Sylum was one of those powerful things that fought for play in his mind, but it was such a hectic subject he did his best to will it away. He thought of Edrick and Gipson too, those two who walked at either side of him and saw him through to his ends. Admiration swelled, almost painfully in his heart. He thought of Dunnings, thought of what he would say when he returned to the Lux Aeterna and met the man who had looked away from him when he'd left. And on some scale he thought of the war that may or may not happen, whether or not he did a thing about it, thought about it like poet's think of their grim truth, always there and never there.

But, most of all, he thought of how hard life would be in the future, and what he would do when it finally got there.


End file.
